Cry Blue Murder

by Kim Kane

  I’m sorry, Alice. I think I’m going to have to sign off. Trying to stay upbeat when you’re actually feeling sad is really tiring.

  Hugs.

  xCC

  From: Alice King Alicekingofthejungle@gmail.com

  Saturday 4 June 8:38 PM

  Celia

  I feel like I’ve hardly written properly for ages. You must think I’ve fallen right off the face of the earth? It’s just that ever since I heard about Adeline being found I’ve really been struggling to see the point. I am completely haunted. And, I’ve been very angry with God, even if I don’t believe in him. What IS the point? Sorry for being absent, but:

  can’t get near a freaking computer these days, because everyone’s so obsessed with murdered teenagers that they’re always Googling or writing home

  can’t handle hearing one more thing about Adeline Taranto and her poor little blue body

  Sister Catherine threw a special mass to send prayers to Adeline’s family but I made a point of not swallowing my communion wafer

  instead, I put it in my sock

  afterwards I talked to God, and this is what I said, ‘God, I’m so angry with you. What kind of a God are you?’

  I’m glad you liked my ponytail surprise. It was a risky one. I too am now a beetle

  I was going to audition for the role of Yum-Yum in The Mikado but being numb isn’t exactly the best starting point for drama

  I would have definitely frozen like a fish finger in the audition, so I didn’t show

  I am really glad you didn’t muck up the chicken ad and that the director loved it. I guess if you’re going to be forced into doing something that you can’t totally sabotage then you might as well do it properly

  it seems there really is nothing you cannot do Miss Celia Bees Knees

  girls who don’t have a role in the play have to VOLUNTEER to help with costumes and make-up back stage. Tragic. I’ll be a slave to the stars. I bet I end up having to stuff Siobhan O’Connor’s back fat into a lace-up bodice

  did I mention being angry with God? I am very angry with God, CC

  you are the best friend a prisoner without a ponytail, a mother or a role in a play could ever have

  I’m scared that when you meet me you might not like me

  for the first time in ages I am glad I’m up here, but I’m scared, too. Scared for you and Cleo

  to be honest I’m not so scared for Jaime. Or Tess

  please be careful

  trust nobody

  and I mean NOBODY

  I will write more later, I promise

  as you can see, I’m not so newsy right now

  Alice x

  From: Celia Beasley CeeceeB@gmail.com

  Sunday 5 June 4:57 PM

  Hi Alice

  I really do get why you’re upset. I can’t stop thinking about those girls and their cocoons, so I wrote a poem about it. I heard some crime specialists think the killer might be using Nabokov’s butterfly as a theme. Google it.

  Please take care, Alice.

  xCCB

  Polyommatus Blue

  The pod hangs,

  Stuck to the fence,

  Kissing?

  A cocoon woven from memories,

  A patchwork.

  Some joyful, some wretched,

  Some sharp, some soft,

  Knitted together, tight like a secret.

  Inside

  a grub,

  Butterfly blue,

  Begins to unfurl her wings.

  STATEMENT

  Name:Hallie Gabrielle KNIGHT

  STATES:

  My full name is Hallie Gabrielle KNIGHT and I am 15 years old and was born on 30th November. This is my second statement. My mother is present and her name is Sylvia Jean KNIGHT.

  I woke up on a bare mattress facing a wall. I was lying on my left side and it seemed like only one second had passed since I was in the car, like how I felt waking up after my shoulder operation and time was all skewed out of whack. I had no idea where I was, just that I was very cold and that something awful was happening. I remembered the man in the gloves and I felt myself stiffen. I couldn’t move. I tried to pretend I was still unconscious or sedated or whatever it was. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to pretend I was dead, go back to the blackness where I’d just been. But I could feel eyes behind me, watching me, and I knew that he knew I was awake. I tried to stifle my tears, but gave myself away making spasms, little jerks, no matter how hard I tried to hold them in, he could see me moving. I almost threw up.

  Then I heard his voice. I will never forget it. He said, ‘Now then, Missy’. He told me we had a lot of work to do and we’d better make a start. I felt a hand on my shoulder, trying to pull me over onto my back. I screamed, but no sound came. I clenched my eyes closed, waiting for something awful to happen, some sort of pain or worse, the disgusting weight of him on top of me. But all I felt was something covering my face, a handkerchief. Then, the sound of him closing the door and locking it behind him. I heard footsteps disappearing down a wooden corridor and what I’m sure was the sound of a dog running behind, clicky-clacky dog nails on wood. I sat up and wiped my face but I didn’t want to look around, didn’t want to take more of his world in. I hugged my knees into my chest and buried my head. I was on an old bed like from an army barracks or something. Yucky old. The iron was painted a yellowish cream colour and had lots of paint chipped off. The mattress had buttons, was faded pink and smelled of mothballs. I started crying again, uncontrollably. He was back. I could hear him speaking but I screamed for my mum over the top of him. I didn’t want to hear what he was saying. I refused to look up. I felt him place his hand up near my shoulders. I screamed until my throat hurt and I heard him leave and lock the door. I was sure my life was over. But I knew he had things in store for me first and that was the worst part. I tried my best to stop crying and work out where I was. At that point I swore I could hear talking from another room. It could have been a radio or something, but there was definitely a woman’s voice. Then I heard the sound of another door closing in the distance and footsteps outside on gravel, before it all went quiet.

  I never saw the rest of the house, just that one room and a toilet across the passage, which was always pitch black and stank of that icky sweet stink of the school loos. It was an old house, like Victorian or something. The ceilings had the decorative stuff that Victorian houses have around the lights and edges of the walls. There was also an old fireplace, but it wasn’t in use, just stone cold. There were two windows, both with blinds pulled down, rattling in the wind. A single bare light-globe hung from the centre of the ceiling and swung with the draft. The floors were bare wood. The air was colder than Melbourne, icy. I was sure I was somewhere out of town, somewhere far away.

  There was a long bench between the windows. It was cluttered with rolls of fabric and there was a large wicker basket piled with wool and scraps of material, stuff like that. I guess it was some type of sewing room. There was a weaving loom in front of the bench with a small three-legged stool like the ones people use to milk cows. Above the bed was a huge photograph of a butterfly with the Latin name written under it. I can’t remember exactly, but it started with P. The creepiest thing was a dressmaker’s dummy, an old one. It had nothing but a set of wings mounted on the back, made from blue feathers.

  I heard the door unlock again. This was the first time I saw him. He was wearing some sort of face mask, like a balaclava or more like one of those burns stockings. It made his nose flat and his eyes squinty so I can’t even describe how he looked. He was carrying a tray, and kicked the door closed with his foot. I could hear the dog again, on the other side sniffing and whining under the door with its snout. I could smell stinky blue cheese. There was also two mugs of what h
e said was warm milk and honey. He offered me one, but I didn’t take it. I was still crying. He said something about not having time for all these waterworks. Like I said before, his voice was kind of formal and proper with an unusual accent, English or something.

  On the wall to the left of the door he set about putting up a photograph with thumbtacks. It was of a young girl’s face, about A4 size. She was wearing a school uniform. I recognised her straightaway from the newspaper a couple of years back. It was one of the girls who had gone missing, her name was Cornelia something. He added a second photograph, to the right of the first. It was the other girl, the one that went missing soon after. I couldn’t stop sobbing. He was going to kill me just like he killed those two girls who were found in the park, all blue from being poisoned with cyanide. I remembered when it happened I had asked my mum how long it took to die of poison and if it hurt. I just couldn’t believe that people would soon be talking about a girl – and that girl, would be me. Underneath the photo of Cornelia he put another photo, an even closer one of her face. Her eyes were closed. Her face was all white-ish blue. Her lips were blue, too. I realised it was a photo of Cornelia dead. And then he put another photo up, underneath that one, of a body all wrapped up in some kind of fabric, and I remembered how those girls were found – all swaddled up like babies. I was hardly breathing.

  He held the next photo, and, in a quiet voice said, ‘Esther was so very slow. It took her three whole days of weaving to get it right’. He put another photo up. Again, a close-up of Esther’s dead, blue face. I just wanted it to be over. Underneath, another picture of her, all wrapped up in fabric. I couldn’t look anymore. He kept telling me we had a lot of work to do and that I had to stop crying. When I finally opened my eyes again he was pinning a photo to the right of Esther’s. It was one of me. I threw up. I don’t know where he could have got it from, but it was a rowing team photo after the Head of the River last year. There was vomit all over the floor. The whole room was spinning. He let himself out and returned with a roll of paper towel, a washcloth and a bucket of water. ‘Clean it up now, Hallie,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a lot to get through. Pull yourself together, girl.’

  He took the wicker basket from under the table and placed it next to the bed. There were long shreds of fabric and wool and bits of old school uniform. And hair, long strands of it. He started weaving some of the fabric through the loom and told me to watch, as he was only going to explain it once. I must have passed out. The next thing I knew I was waking up to the sound of the dog sniffing under the door again and a train in the distance. It was just a faint rattle, but I was sure it was a train. I was alone. I ran to the door, but it was locked. Next to the photo of me, two more had been tacked to the wall. One of the girls looked like she might have had Greek or Italian ancestry. I now know this was Adeline Taranto. The next girl, she could have been anyone, like any old Aussie schoolgirl, brown hair, big smile. It’s actually impossible to remember. I didn’t think I’d need to remember. She was someone I would never be able to help because I’d be dead. I’m so sorry. I can’t remember anything about that face. I remember more about what he’d pinned up underneath. It was a line, like from maybe a poem or something. ‘She waits in newly minted socks.’

  It was freezing cold. I was hungry, but I didn’t want to drink the milk in case it was poisoned. I pulled the blind away from the window to see outside. It was nearly dark. The ground was gravelly and there was an old wire fence at the edge of a yard and I’m pretty sure there was an old chook house or some type of animal pen. There was nothing else to see, just empty brown paddocks on the other side of a fence. There was nothing.

  [STATEMENT CONCLUDED DUE TO WITNESS DISTRESS]

  I hereby acknowledge that this statement is true and correct and I make it in the belief that a person making a false statement in the circumstances is liable to the penalties of perjury.

  Sylvia Jean KNIGHT as guardian for Hallie Gabrielle KNIGHT

  Acknowledgement made and signature witnessed by me at 10.15am on 6th June at St Kilda Road Police Station, Melbourne.

  M BELL

  Detective Senior Constable 29861

  THIS IS A VIDEO-RECORDED INTERVIEW BETWEEN DETECTIVE SENIOR CONSTABLE MAURICE BELL AND AJAY MEHTA OF THOMASTOWN CONDUCTED AT THE ST KILDA ROAD POLICE STATION ON SATURDAY 14th MAY AT 9.06AM. OTHER PERSONS PRESENT, MY CORROBORATOR, ACTING DETECTIVE SERGEANT PETER DAVIS.

  Q1So, Ajay, here we are again. Are you ready to speak?

  AI wasn’t at home. On either weekend.

  Q2We know.

  AI was in Shepparton.

  Q3Shepparton?

  AYes, sir. About two hours from Melbourne.

  Q4And what were you doing in Shepparton, Ajay?

  AVisiting my wife, sir. My wife and daughter. They pick fruit up there. Well, my wife, Anjalee, does.

  Q5I thought you lived alone?

  AI do. I am also earning money to support my family, sir. They live in Shepparton. Umm . . . my wife has . . . she has problems, visa problems. So does my daughter.

  Q6And the schools on your computer?

  AFor my daughter, sir, Githa. If we stay, if we can stay, she’s a bright girl. I like to look at scholarship information. To imagine.

  Q7And the syringes?

  AGitha was sick. That was why I needed the syringes – for her antibiotics. They gave them to us at the hospital.

  Q8Your wife can verify this? What was her name? Lee?

  AAnjalee, sir.

  Q9And Anjalee can verify this?

  AYes, sir. But please don’t tell the authorities, sir. Please. Anjalee couldn’t cope with a detention centre, we . . . couldn’t cope. Githa is only three and we would be separated and there is nothing for the children to do. Nothing. It is bleak, sir, no books, no toys. Nothing. Oh how did I get us in this situation? I am from a good family. Please, sir. Please just give us a chance . . .

  Interview terminated at 9.11am.

  STATEMENT

  Name:Hilda Margaret HAMILTON

  STATES:

  My full name is Hilda Margaret HAMILTON. I am 53 years old. I am the principal of Ashbourne School for Girls. I have held that position for six years.

  Rodney James WEAVER is a consultant who has provided services to the school for the past two years. He was brought on four weeks ago to manage lighting for the upcoming production of Sweeney Todd, which Ashbourne is undertaking with Melbourne Boys’ College. He has worked every school day since he was engaged, but he leaves early (3pm) in order to attend to his other commitments.

  I understand Ashbourne has engaged Mr WEAVER in the past to assist with a number of projects, such as the school valedictory evening and the twilight school fete.

  I have never met Mr WEAVER, but I understand from Georgina LUCAS, who is head of the drama department, that Mr WEAVER has worked for several schools. He was initially recommended by Melanie WERNER of Barrington Hall, as they have also contracted him for a number of productions.

  Georgina LUCAS believes Mr WEAVER to be very competent. He’s an old Sandringham Grammar boy and is well-spoken, but also able to communicate with other technical staff.

  I understand Mr WEAVER gets on very well with the students, as he’s young and handsome. I am not aware of Mr WEAVER’S marital status. To Georgina’s knowledge, however, Mr WEAVER has never behaved inappropriately with the girls and is actually quite aloof. Georgina stated that Mr WEAVER is far more polished than previous ‘techies’ the school has engaged and she would definitely engage him again, because it’s difficult to find people who are a good ‘cultural fit’ and she has found his behaviour impeccable. With so many young women on campus we have to be rigorous about engaging men. Ashbourne can hardly afford a scandal, particularly in the light of a tragedy like Adeline TARANTO.

  Working With Children Checks are routine and school p
olicy. However, as Mr WEAVER is not on staff, it is possible the check was not conducted. There is no Working With Children Certificate on his file.

  I hereby acknowledge that this statement is true and correct and I make it in the belief that a person making a false statement in the circumstances is liable to the penalties of perjury.

  Hilda Margaret HAMILTON

  Acknowledgement made and signature witnessed by me at 5.31pm on 26th May at St Kilda Road Police Station, Melbourne.

  M BELL

  Detective Senior Constable 29861

  From: Alice King Alicekingofthejungle@gmail.com

  Monday 6 June 8:09 PM

  Dear CC,

  This morning I started crying at morning prayers and then I couldn’t stop and they sent me to talk to Mrs Carmichael the school counsellor as I refused to talk to Sister Patricia anymore ’cause she has the worst bad coffee breath and knows NOTHING about life other than how to light candles. Not that I talked to Mrs Carmichael much either. Thing was, I just cried and cried and I couldn’t even control it. And when she asked me what got me feeling so sad, I said it was finding out about Adeline Taranto and then she asked me what that reminded me of, and I said it reminded me of death and murder and crows and prison, and then she asked me if I’d ever experienced a death and I told her about Johnny and also about Thumper who was our rabbit. And then I couldn’t stop crying again.

  Mrs Carmichael said I was having what they call a ‘delayed post-traumatic stress response’ and that the Adeline stuff had triggered unresolved grief about Johnny. Then she asked me if I had cried much when Johnny died and I told her that I didn’t cry at all and felt numb just like I do now, and then she said, ‘Aha’. Because it was such a shock my body had kind of shut down and waited to show grief at a time that was safe. Well, she’s a fool because WHY would I feel safe now, with that man out there stealing girls just like you and me?