Blood Sisters

by Caroline de Costa

  ‘Which is what the Taskforce should be able to work out,’ replied Leslie, ‘and deal with.’

  Drew paused for a moment, then said: ‘There’s also the fact of a number of possibly missing women. Yeah, some may turn up and, yeah, their families haven’t reported them missing, so maybe they’re all in touch.’

  ‘They could all follow a path from here to one of the cities down south,’ Leslie said. ‘Or to WA. Plenty of work in the mines there. They just outstay their visas, work for cash, remain under the radar, save enough and then eventually they’ll get on a plane and go home. Immigration will just wave them goodbye. There’s no penalty for overstaying if you’re at the airport with a ticket out; except it’s hard to come back later.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Cass agreed, ‘but it does seem like a lot are overstaying. We could try a couple of people in the taskforces in Melbourne and Sydney to see if they think some of them are turning up there. Under other names, maybe. It does seem like a pattern, with quite a lot of women.’

  ‘The other thing, I wondered’ said Drew slowly, ‘is whether Rita Gonzalo also fitted into the picture...’

  Leslie thought about this for a few moments, then said: ‘I suppose there are some things in common, as we said before. But... if you’re postulating a serial killer here in Cairns and we haven’t found the other bodies yet, Detective, it seems like a long bow to me.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ Drew answered. ‘Troy worked on that case more than I did; I only came in later.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leslie. ‘He did a lot of excellent spadework. Seventy-something clients he followed up.’

  ‘It’s the kind of thing he’s very good at,’ Drew said. ‘And he nearly had a culprit—except the guy had a cast-iron alibi.’

  ‘That was a surprise,’ Leslie agreed. He turned to Cass. ‘The suspect who’d agreed he’d been to Rita’s unit more than once but wouldn’t give an alibi for the night she was killed,’ he explained. ‘Then it turned out he’d been committing armed robbery a few suburbs away on the date in question!’

  ‘So Cass is going to have a look at Rita’s case, anyway,’ Drew said. ‘Probably tomorrow. I’ve filled her in a bit already. Meanwhile, I’ll look harder at these possibly missing women. Where they came from, where they worked, any common threads, and contact Sydney and Melbourne.’

  ***

  Cass walked towards her office where she was expecting Susie Ortega at five-thirty, checking the messages on her phone as she went.

  Can I borrow car tonite pls, Jordon had texted, going to party @ gordonvale.

  Not if u want to drive back tonight, Cass texted back, can u stay the night?

  Phone in hand, she walked into the office, and found Susie already there.

  ‘Oh, hi! I hope you haven’t been waiting long?’ Cass said.

  ‘No. Just arrived. I’ve come to give you my statement. And I’ve been admiring your view. I’ve got nothing to look at from my office except a brick wall.’

  ‘I thought you’d do better in the hospital, being by the sea?’

  ‘Nah. The good offices are all kept for management.’

  ‘Have you been in Cairns long? I don’t think we’d met before the other night.’

  ‘No. But you’ve met my husband.’

  ‘Of course! Dr Jolley. Henry. He helped me with the Munoz case! And I’d heard that you were married.’

  Susie smiled, her green eyes sparkling. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And very happy.’

  She reached into her bag. ‘I’ve made some notes. About my involvement in this case. I know you’ll get the autopsy report as well.’

  Cass began to type as Susie described how she’d had been called urgently to Emergency while the ambulance was still on its way to the hospital.

  ‘The lab report on the foil we found in the motel room came back positive for misoprostol, as you suspected would be the case,’ Cass said.

  ‘Misoprostol. Yes, that just confirms really what happened. She tried to bring about her own abortion. But the pregnancy was too advanced, and the placenta was stuck.’

  ‘We’ve looked at Queensland abortion law,’ said Cass, ‘just in case we found that another person—who was not a doctor—was involved in giving her the drugs. We have absolutely no evidence for that, though.’

  ‘Queensland abortion law is mediaeval,’ Susie declared firmly. ‘Written when abortion with instruments was the only method, and in unqualified hands, dangerous.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cass answered. ‘I just dusted off the statutes to read earlier today. Three sections in ominous language making abortion a crime for the woman and any other person involved. But anyway, in this case, if we thought that someone had given the drug to the deceased, we would probably look at a manslaughter charge, not the abortion laws. It depends on the circumstances. However, it looks as if she organised the whole thing herself.’

  ‘The case is quite tragic,’ Susie said. ‘One thing you do feel all the time in our specialty, is how many women want to be pregnant and are having problems getting there, but on the other hand, how many others manage to get pregnant without wanting to be, who then need our help in the opposite way.’

  ‘Yeah. That must be difficult for you to work with sometimes.’

  Susie’s cheeks flushed. Then she said: ‘I must confess it’s been a problem for me lately. When I said Henry and I couldn’t be happier—that’s not quite true. I’ve been on IVF, myself. I lost my son—my only child—a few years ago, and I’m 44 now. So, we thought we’d give it a go. But it’s four cycles now and still no pregnancy.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Cass said. ‘I’ve got one son who’s 20 now, and I just couldn’t imagine how awful it must be to lose a child.’

  ‘Yeah, you never get over it, really. But don’t get me wrong—I’m very, very happy being married to Henry, with or without children.’

  11

  Cairns

  July 2007

  The first time Susie saw the dove was the last day of the school holidays, the day she collected Matthew from the airport. Geoff had taken their son skiing, which she could never afford to do with him. Matthew was full of excited stories about slaloms and ski jumps and a friend of his from school who’d broken his leg colliding with a snow gum. Susie listened happily as she turned out of the airport’s carpark and skirted the mangroves at the side of the bay before reaching the highway and crossing the Barron. Ten minutes along the highway, they turned off towards the beach and home.

  The dove must have been there for some days, but of course Susie had rushed out early each morning clutching laptop and keys, already switched into thinking about the hospital. And it was dark most evenings when she flopped back in. She hadn’t looked at the staghorn fern, mounted on the wall next to the front door, for at least a week. But Matthew noticed it immediately on arriving home.

  ‘Look, Mum, a bird’s built its nest in the staghorn. A kind of dove.’ The fern was high up the timber wall of the Queenslander. Matthew clambered on to a chair and peered across, so as not to disturb the nesting bird. Balanced between the drooping foliage of the fern and the wall of the house was an untidy heap of sticks, on which sat a plump, russet-coloured bird, her eyes bright in the knowledge of impending motherhood. Then with a soft explosive coo the male bird made his presence known behind Matthew.

  ‘Oh, just look at that!’ Susie exclaimed. The male’s underside was the same reddish-brown as the female’s, but his wings and shoulders were a brilliant emerald green, his beak and feet scarlet. She’d never seen this species before. They identified it later from Matthew’s book as Chalcophaps indica, the emerald ground-dove. Known to nest on farms and in scrubland, it seemed unusual for a pair to nest on a seaside veranda. Matthew was ecstatic. He brought the stepladder and placed it near the top of the stairs so that he could watch the birds for half an hour at a time without distracting them. On the veranda rail he put morsels of fruit which the male gathered up for the female, who could be seen to be pampering a single c
reamy egg. The male would perch on the leaves of the staghorn, making sure every bit was eaten.

  In the mornings he stationed himself in the poinciana by the garden gate, his emerald wings flashing in the sunlight. With a penetrating croo-crooning he defended his territory from the currawongs that alighted on the higher branches. In the afternoons he took his turn on the nest whilst the female flew off down the beach for a bit of quality time by herself.

  The first week Matthew was back at school was particularly busy for Susie because Tim Ingram, the other registrar in the unit, was on leave. It was often eight by the time she got home where she invariably found Matthew sitting cross-legged, playing his flute. At work, Susie still had spasms of guilt—that at 14 he let himself in, did his homework, fed his rabbits and cycled off on errands alone. But each evening on reaching home, she would find him there, apparently happy, self-contained, so she was reassured. She would cook a late supper, and they would sit in the kitchen until bedtime, talking—of music, films he’d watched, weekend plans, stuff at school.

  For her nights on call, he stayed with a neighbour. Her hospital pay covered her share of school fees, clothes and outings, but she couldn’t afford and didn’t want a full-time housekeeper.

  Her marriage had failed when Matthew was ten, and after the divorce, bored with general practice in Brisbane, she’d seen the advertisement for the training job in obstetrics in the far north of the state in Cairns, where she had never been. Matthew happily made the transition to a new school and new friends. Susie liked the job and the hospital. Geoff took Matthew for the holidays.

  ***

  At the end of Matthew’s first week back at school, Susie arrived home to great excitement. From the front doorway, Matthew could hear a grating sound that indicated the hatching of the chick: he had read that the baby dove had an egg-tooth on its bill which would help crack the shell. The mother bird rustled her feathers in agitation and nuzzled the egg with her beak while her mate watched anxiously from the veranda rail. Fragments of eggshell dropped onto the veranda as the tiny bird emerged into the light. Later, cautiously, Matthew climbed the stepladder and could just make out the tiny, sandy-yellow squab, as the mother fussed and cooed and rearranged it. At first both mother and nestling were dependent on the male dove for food but later, the mother was prepared to leave for a few minutes to search for titbits.

  It happened the following Thursday. A major case on the theatre list was cancelled so, unexpectedly, Susie, was free by late afternoon. Elated, she headed for home. Turning into her street, she found a crowd of neighbours at her house; at the centre a policeman she’d occasionally seen in Emergency. He led her into her house and sat her down.

  ‘Dr Ortega? I’m sorry... I’m afraid your son has been involved in a... a fatal accident.’

  ‘You don’t mean something’s happened to Matthew?’

  ‘I’m sorry, doctor, yes. He’s been fatally injured. He died even before the ambulance arrived... I’d just sent a man in to look for you at the hospital. Riding his bike, your boy was, up towards the main road. He’d just left that little supermarket and had swerved around a delivery van. He was collected by a truck coming the other way. The poor bloke just couldn’t stop...’

  Susie walked into her house and looked at the floor of Matthew’s bedroom. His school clothes were scattered there exactly as they always were. He must have just gone out. He’d be back in a while. Then the policeman had put an arm around her and led her back into her living room, gently sitting her on the couch. Her neighbour brought her a teacup filled with brandy, and Susie had realised that what the policeman was telling her was true.

  In the time and space that followed, Susie was aware of many neighbours bringing covered dishes, Tim’s wife Chris answering the telephone, cups of tea and masses of carefully arranged flowers, and men in black proffering photos of coffins. Her brother came from Melbourne, and Geoff came, but with his second wife, so there was no moment of recovered intimacy, of shared remembrances. Tim quickly organised roster cover and the hospital gave her extended leave.

  The birds must have been disturbed by the flurried activity in the house, though Susie did not think of them at all in the first few days. But the day following the funeral that Chris had arranged, she saw a currawong fly out from under the balcony, from the staghorn. Both male and female doves were in the nest, crooning mournfully, and she realised that the currawong had taken the squab. For a few days the couple stayed in the poinciana, watching the old nest. The male seemed to have lost his green gloss. Finally, they flew off and did not return.

  The first year will be the worst, her psychiatrist told Susie. Carefully, Lyndall Symonds discussed the stages of grief with her. I’m not going to assume, Lyndall said, that being a doctor makes you any more able to cope with this. Work, a routine, will help, she said.

  ‘I should have worked harder at the marriage,’ Susie said. ‘Had more children.’

  ‘Susie,’ said Lyndall, ‘try not to think that. Apart from anything else, your husband wanted no more children, you told me that.’

  Susie had nodded. This was true, Geoff had not really wanted even one child. She must try to immerse herself in her work and her studies.

  ***

  In that first year, Susie had many sessions with Lyndall. As the anniversary of Matthew’s death approached, she confessed to having a great longing to be pregnant again.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lyndall gently, ‘I understand that. But... you can’t replace Matthew with another child. And you’re a professional woman. You have your training and your work.’

  ‘Not replace him,’ Susie replied, ‘but I’d feel... like a tree or a vine, with a branch cut off... growing another shoot in a different direction.’ But with no steady partner the prospects of pregnancy were dim. Intellectually, Susie accepted this. Deep inside, though, was a vast loneliness.

  On the evening of Matthew’s anniversary in 2008, she took herself for a long walk on the beach at the end of her street. Passing a secluded area of the beachside park where native shrubs grew thickly, she saw the emerald doves again. The male bird first—there was no mistaking him. He sat at the top of a paperbark tree and cooed exultantly. Susie stopped, enjoying the sound in the clear evening air. Then further away, she saw the female perched on the edge of a new nest in a smaller paperbark, and beside her their new baby, a fledgling, awkward, pink, half-feathered.

  For a long time, Susie watched the mother murmuring instructions to the young one. Then, turning abruptly, she crossed the park, walked briskly back down the street and, drawing out her keys, let herself into her empty house.

  12

  Cairns

  Thursday 23rd August 2013

  Marcellina Lavides sat in the living room of her rented unit in Mooroobool, thinking hard. That morning the mamasan had called and told her that she must not have any more guys at the place. The mamasan was furious with what Dorrie had done. Now the police knew that the two girls had been working together out of the unit. Yesterday after she had been to the police station, Marcie had called the mamasan to tell her that Dorrie was dead. She’d also told her that she’d had to sign a statement for the police with the help of an interpreter but reassured the mamasan that she didn’t tell the police lady anything at all about how she had come to be in Australia. The mamasan was still very angry about it—that interpreter spoke Tagalog and might talk to other people in the town, she said.

  The mamasan was fuming as well because Marcie had met the schoolgirls. Marcie must give the money she had made to the mamasan and give back the mobiles that she and Dorrie had used. Then she’d be sent to Sydney.

  When she’d spoken to the mamasan in the morning, Marcie didn’t tell her that yesterday evening the police lady had come to her house and rung the bell, and while Marcie was standing inside, thinking about whether to open the door or not, a man Marcie knew, someone she had serviced, had come along. And before Marcie—peeking through a tiny slit in the venetians—had quite seen what he had d
one, the police lady had him laid out on the ground. Then more police with uniforms had come in a police car and taken him away. Marcie did not know what to make of this, but she felt very afraid of what the police might be able to do to her.

  Right now, though, she was hungry because that morning she’d eaten the last packet of instant noodles left in the kitchen and there was no more food in the house. The mamasan wanted nearly all the money Marcie had earned in the previous two days but Marcie had given a lot of it to Scarlett to send to Maria Angela; what she had left she did not want to waste on food.

  Marcie didn’t know how she could break the news to Maria Angela that Dorrie was dead. She didn’t know if she herself was going to be able to make enough money for Maria Angela to continue looking after little Ronny, but she was glad that she had trusted Scarlett with sending the money to Maria Angela for her. She hadn’t had time to tell Scarlett everything, though, and did not know how to contact her again.

  What would happen to her in Sydney? Would she be able to work, or would the police be looking for her, now they knew she was not really a student? She did not trust the mamasan. Marcie wanted above all to take Dorrie’s body home to the Philippines for a proper burial—something her family had never had. But this morning the mamasan had said no.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ she’d said impatiently. ‘That girl’s already caused enough problems. She’ll be cremated here in Australia.’

  Burnt into ashes. Sweet, sweet Dorrie. Little Ronny’s nanay. Tears rolled down Marcie’s face as she thought about it now.

  Marcie wanted to just run away, but she didn’t know where she could go. The mamasan had her passport and her return ticket to Manila; she was not going to give them back any time soon. The little money Marcie had left would not take her far, and she had no friends anywhere else in Australia. She was not allowed to work on the streets in Queensland, and even if she did, the mamasan would soon find her. The police lady had seemed kind, but Marcie knew she must never trust the police no matter what they said.