‘Can you supply me with a list of staff who have left without notice? Go back as far as you can, but I figure those bodies in the boat haven’t been dead longer than a year or so.’
Everett noticed the look of irritation on Lawson’s face at the prospect of sifting through so much paperwork. Then he saw him look past at the evidence board on the stage. The detective turned, gestured to the crime-scene photos.
‘Those could be your men lying down in that boat hulk, Mr Lawson,’ Everett added. ‘Anything you can provide will be helpful.’
He wondered whether Lawson had heard him. The man appeared mesmerised by the pictures, his air of confidence giving way to a trembling jawline. Everett sensed regret surfacing in Lawson’s expression, and wondered what its genesis was. Lawson took a breath, and blinked himself alert.
‘No problem,’ he said, more softly than usual. ‘Anything else?’
Everett was about to say there wasn’t, then thought of the dome tent and sleeping bag he had borrowed from Georgie Emery at the pub. ‘Yeah,’ he said, reaching for the two bags by the door. ‘Can you drop these off to Constable Fisher down at the dig site on your way back? Tell her I’ll send some lunch and supplies out shortly.’
Lawson cradled the bags as his men turned towards the door.
Everett nodded at the loggers as they passed. ‘Oh – and here,’ he said, pulling his wallet from his hip pocket. He took out a fifty. ‘Buy your men some lunch … My thanks.’
‘Put it away, Detective,’ said Lawson. ‘That’s their buddy out there. They want to help.’ He turned to walk outside, stopped, and faced Everett again. ‘You’re gonna find the Reach a whole lot different to the city. People here are used to cleaning their own laundry, not having others come in to clean it for them.’
Everett looked past Lawson to the crowd gathering outside; there were more of them now. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,’ he said.
‘Time will tell,’ said Lawson as he turned to leave.
The fifty in Everett’s hand suddenly felt dirty. Even with the best intentions he could never buy these people’s trust. His belly tensed. He would have to earn it … and earn it fast.
He closed the doors behind Lawson and his men, walked back to the trestle table and sat down tiredly in front of his laptop. The screen was black, only the power and wi-fi lights staring back at him. Everett tapped enter and the screen lit up with the Bureau of Meteorology radar page. He sighed at the wall of deep blues and reds sweeping in from the north-west. Then an email message flashed in the lower corner. Detective Inspector Kensington LAC.
Re extra resources. State Crime Command advises that their technicians remain unavailable. However, due to possible missing persons, they have recommended a rank of Senior Detective and two extra constables be supplied by Local Area Command to assist until SCC team arrives within the week. I will confirm personnel and advise ETA as soon as possible. Will also need to arrange transport from the Air Wing. Chopper best way in now since ferry closure. Sorry, Ryan, best I can do for now.
DI Kensington
Everett felt a gentle relief ease through his body. He minimised his emails; again, the ominous wall of blues and reds filled the screen and, again, he felt that narrow window of opportunity edging closed.
7
Taylor broke through the sapling pines as he stepped from the escarpment. He could hear his pulse beating in his ears as he caught his breath. The clearing hugged the riverbank, the long grass a green sea stirred by the wind. He turned as a cluster of loose stones preceded Jaimie’s descent behind him. She jumped the last metre, barely breaking a sweat.
‘You’re out of shape,’ she said, reminding him of Maggie’s dry humour.
Taylor smiled. He missed his wife more than ever. The breeze cooled the sweat on his brow, and he wiped it out of his eyes with his shirtsleeve. ‘You’re right,’ he said with a slight pant.
‘Those southern parks must be too easy on their rangers,’ she said with a wink.
Taylor caught his breath for a moment and watched as Jaimie walked ahead towards the weir. The wall was bigger than it appeared from above. A fine mist of water, stirred by the cascades, was carried downriver by the wind. It collected on his face; refreshing. ‘Wait up,’ he called.
Jaimie paused at the embankment. When Taylor caught up, she led the way along the incline to the lip of the weir. They stood where the catwalk commenced, perched a metre or so above the wall and supported by a steel frame. The sound of the wind and plunging water dominated the location; they had to raise their voices to be heard.
‘Hard to believe now,’ said Jaimie, ‘but this used to be a popular swimming hole years ago. There are photos hanging in the ranger cottage of picnickers on the shore and boats in the basin. You have to imagine the place when it’s not flooding. Clear water, a gentle spill over the wall, the rim of shade trees around the shoreline.’ She shook her head. ‘Just beautiful.’
‘So why did the locals stop coming?’
She paused, gazing across the brown water. ‘Logging and national parks make strange bedfellows, Taylor. I guess the loggers won out in the end; drove the others away.’ She turned to face him. ‘I know this sounds silly, but whenever I’m down here alone, I can imagine the sound of children laughing and splashing in the water. The convent is closed now – a children’s home, Heaven’s Gate. They used to bring the kids down here in the summer, but that was years ago … before my time.’
‘Places like this can play with your imagination,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing silly about how they make you feel. I don’t know that I believe in ghosts, but I do believe in haunted places.’
‘What’s the difference?’ Jaimie asked.
‘I believe when something bad happens – and I mean something truly wicked – it can leave a stain, some kind of residue on the place; a memory that can’t be wiped clean. Nothing to do with spectres, things that go bump in the night; it’s more grounded than that, as if the energy sparked during that wicked deed remains burning somehow.’
‘Do you think something wicked happened here?’
A surging gust of wind whistled through the pines. Taylor was about to answer when something struck him, quickly, like a swift knife in the dark, and he stopped. His attention was drawn to the deep water and just for a second – a heartbeat – he thought he heard a child’s laughter.
He steadied himself, clasped the handrail. It wasn’t just that it sounded like a child’s laughter; but how much it sounded like Claire’s.
Why reach out to Erin, baby? Why not me?
Jaimie placed her hand over his on the railing. ‘You okay?’
The feeling of Jaimie’s hand brought him back. Taylor drew away. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘We should cross while we still have light.’ He knew that no one but Claire could ever answer his question. He felt his jaw clench tight as he tried to stop thinking about it. But still Erin’s advice danced in his mind, mingled with the rushing white noise of water over the weir’s rim. Claire said that you need to be careful.
Taylor led the way across the catwalk; the handrail wet, slippery, cold to the touch. Mist churned up through the grate in swirling plumes. Halfway across, the structure vibrated against the weight of water that pressed at the wall, a strange hum emanating from the steel. He cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘I hope this holds!’ he yelled.
‘It’s survived worse floods than this,’ replied Jaimie.
As they neared the other side, a spillway drew a deeper course of brown water beneath them. Taylor clutched the railing tighter as he crossed the last section, a strange sensation of falling overcoming him. He picked up the pace and stepped onto the concrete shoreline in the shadow of the pump house with a sense of relief. No rushing water trying to lure him down; no child’s laughter, just solid concrete – tangible, safe. Jaimie caught up and they continued to the doors: two steel panels, four metres tall. They appeared heavy and weathered where rust blistered the surface of faded green paint.
One door was open a crack, just enough to discern the darkness within.
‘What now?’ Jaimie asked.
Taylor steadied himself. ‘If Sampson is in there …’ He was about to say dead or alive, but thought better of it. ‘… or there’s evidence that he has been here,’ he said, ‘we withdraw and call Everett.’
Jaimie drew her Maglite from her belt and focused the beam through the gap. ‘Okay by me,’ she said.
Taylor grasped the edge of the door with both hands. He strained to open it further. The hinges creaked and groaned, then gave way with a crack, and he managed to make a space wide enough for them to squeeze through.
It was cool inside, insulated by the thick concrete walls. Jaimie’s flashlight cast shadows from the oil-glistening engine in the centre of the room that once drove the pump. Taylor watched the beam as Jaimie guided it along a maze of pipes that snaked up the walls and through the roof, where a mud-clad swallow’s nest clung. A railing encircled the pump, dropping into an open basement. There was a pungent smell that raided the senses. Taylor stepped closer, the space flooded with oily water. Jaimie’s torch beam caught the empty beer bottles and spray-paint cans that had amassed in one corner where a steel ladder descended into the water.
‘Have you been in here before?’ he asked as he walked to the back of the complex. His voice echoed off the walls, the sounds from outside muted and distant.
‘No,’ Jaimie said. She arced the flashlight beam along the walls, exploring the dark cavities between the networks of pipes. ‘I wasn’t crazy about the idea of doing it alone.’
Taylor followed the beam as it was cast across years of mostly graffiti, no higher than arm’s reach. Tags, chiefly: Zeb, Astro and Poke the most common. He looked for the A symbol and saw a catwalk fixed to one wall, its ladder missing; perhaps dismantled for safety reasons. That’s when he glimpsed the chalk graffiti, up high. ‘There,’ he said to Jaimie, pointing to the markings.
She focused the light where he was pointing, and he strained to read the wording. Heaven’s Gate Hell’s Kitchen 1959, one scribe had written. The chalk was faded, but the words were big enough to make out, though a patch of black mould from the leaking roof obscured a good portion of the wall. Handsome Jimmy – Orphan no more 1968. Who will take me home? Who will love me? Rosie Nobody 1981.
Taylor stepped closer, and noticed the stick-figure drawings of kids playing. Throwing a ball, skipping and … He tilted his head, not certain what he was looking at. ‘Is that a kid with a bow and arrow?’
Jaimie focused the flashlight on the drawing and arced the beam in the direction of the flying arrows to a crude bullseye at the other end of the catwalk.
‘Ball games, skipping, archery,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s stuff the kids did at the weir on their outings.’
Then Taylor saw it, just beneath the bullseye.
‘There!’ he said. ‘Hold the light still.’
Jaimie froze.
‘Do you see it?’ He paused a moment. ‘It’s worn, but that could be the same symbol … an A.’
The mark was similar, but inside a circle this time, and infantile, not as practised as the one in the boat’s hull. PURGATRY was inscribed beneath it in juvenile lettering.
‘I think you’re right,’ Jaimie said.
Taylor grabbed his phone and took several pictures. ‘I don’t see any sign of recent activity, do you?’
‘No,’ she concurred.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the symbol. Purgatory seemed such a powerful statement. ‘There’s no date on that one,’ he said. ‘But the chalk looks old and faded like the rest.’ He turned to Jaimie. ‘How long ago did they close the children’s home?’
‘I’m not sure. In the mid-nineties I think.’
He frowned. ‘Maybe our killer has a connection with the place.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, looking at the door. ‘We should get going.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want to check the cabin downriver while we still can.’ Taylor led the way, but stopped dead at the partially opened door. Chalked on the inside panel, crude and weatherworn, was the unmistakable image of Yilpinji.
8
Everett scrolled down the laptop screen. The Australian Graffiti Register – or AUSGR – had a list of tags beginning with the letter A, but there was nothing like the symbol left at the crime scenes. He bit his bottom lip in frustration and sat back in his chair, staring up through the dusty window where a thin tree branch tapped at the glass.
The wind was getting stronger, dampening the hope of inbound flights by helicopters anytime soon. He stared back at the screen. Everett had already exhausted the VandalTrak database, where he’d found a similar Anarchist symbol, but the brushstrokes were all wrong and their locations concentrated in Sydney’s south-western suburbs. According to both databases, graffiti tags were most prevalent along the rail corridors, so he’d emailed the crime-scene photos to the Police Transport Command officer for possible matching. However, Everett’s best guess was that the Devlins Reach tag was unique; a message relevant only to these killings.
The computer sounded its incoming mail alert. He frowned as he minimised the AUSGR page to reveal the email, hoping it was good news. There was a new message from LAC – DI Kensington, short and sweet:
Update: We are monitoring the weather for the Air Wing. 1 Detective plus 2 General Duties officers will be deployed within 48 hours. Proposed landing zone is open area at dig site. Please ensure LZ is ready for chopper ASAP. Pilot has your contact number and will confirm ETA when in the air.
For now, maintain situation reports on the John Sampson disappearance and only move bodies from the crime scene if there is a risk of flooding. We are running the symbol through the AUSGR database and will forward any associated convictions to seek a possible match with any potential Devlins Reach locals.
Don’t take any undue risks. Once the extended team are on board, hold the fort until the taskforce is in place.
He smiled at the statement about AUSGR. Way ahead of you, Boss. Everett closed the laptop and stood. He had no intention of taking any risks, undue or otherwise. But the reality was clear: for now, he might be isolated, but so was whoever was behind that symbol and the killings. The anxiety squeezing his chest eased its grip with the thought of an expanded team, but he wasn’t about to count his chickens before they hatched. They’re not here yet.
The wind hummed beneath the eaves outside, as if the community hall – like a great beast – had taken a breath and he was Jonah, stuck in its belly. Everett’s eyes were drawn to the evidence board on the stage and he felt the pressure change in the room, like the weight of water. The place reminded him of his school days; Richmond Primary, class of 2001, when the twin towers came down. The hall’s architecture created the same echoed sounds off old timber walls he remembered from school; the same creaking floorboards and scent of peeling lead paint.
Everett fought the distraction of nostalgia. The evidence around the case was mounting, but it lacked direction. He stepped to the foot of the stage, fists clenched at his sides as he paused with the next wave of weather beneath the eaves. ‘Not drowning,’ he whispered. ‘Treading water … Waiting.’
For what? the wind asked.
He tapped the face of Archie’s watch. ‘For that critical piece that points the way,’ he murmured, and turned to face Sampson’s bike as the water pipes hammered inside the walls.
He had hoped that the forensic team would have been onsite by now. There had to be fingerprints where the symbol had been carved into the paint, and it frustrated him that they couldn’t be accessed. Then a memory seeped back into his mind.
Everett smiled.
Perhaps nostalgia had its place in the investigation, after all. Richmond Primary, the case of the missing jellybean jar, and his homemade detective equipment kept in a shoebox under his bed. He wondered where it would be now. In particular, his fingerprint dusting kit. Feeling like a kid again, he ran to his phone. Beside it was his notepad. He flicke
d through the pages to the list of local phone numbers he had collected – Taylor’s, the pub’s, the ranger’s station and … He placed his finger on the café’s number, Heather Starling underlined. He dialled the number and waited.
‘Brown Sugar Café.’ Her tone was cheerful.
‘Hello, Ms Starling. Detective Everett here. I don’t suppose you’d have a bag of cornflour, a paper cup and a china plate I could borrow, would you?’
There was a slight pause – not surprisingly – then, ‘Well, of course I do, Detective … But what on earth for?’
He felt his shoulders slump in relief. ‘I’ll explain when I get over there.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I’ll send Beck up there with them.’
‘Thanks, Heather.’ Everett was about to hang up when he thought of one last thing. ‘Oh, and you couldn’t spare a soft makeup brush, could you?’
*
The noonday sun was high in the sky. It bathed the river in glare; the forest shadows shortened and gathered at the base of the trees like frightened children. Taylor stood before the cabin ruins, the roiling sound of the river behind him, the wind through the trees a constant hum. ‘There’s not much of the structure left, huh?’ he said to Jaimie.
‘They’re all much the same.’ She cupped her cap against a wind gust. ‘The better-preserved ones are the stone buildings, but anything made of timber is mostly ash and rubble now.’
Taylor stepped closer, Jaimie by his side. The cabin was built on robust sandstone foundations, but only had one stone wall, which supported the weathered fireplace chimney. The rest was dressed logs, blackened and collapsed among sheets of twisted iron sheeting from the roof.
A sudden thud came from the weir, and Jaimie flinched. Taylor turned to the sound and saw a drifting tree trunk perched on the spillway, a surge of white water swelling over it. It thumped repeatedly against the wall before submitting to the pressure and sliding down the spillway with the flow.
The Reach Page 9