‘Detective Williams said Mr Gorr was not being treated as a suspect and police do not have a suspect at this stage. He thanked the community for their overwhelming response and cooperation, and said anyone in the vicinity of the area at the time should contact Crime —’
Aidan flicked channels to The Big Bang Theory.
‘Oh my God, what happened to her?’ Brigitte said, wringing her hands.
‘Dunno. It’s Homicide’s file.’
‘Was she raped?’
‘I said —’
‘What about CCTV?’
He sighed. ‘What about it?’
‘Don’t they have it on the ferry? Might have captured her walking past or something.’
‘I’ll let Williams know you’re available if Homicide need any extra help with this.’
She frowned.
‘They never release all the details, in order to trip up the suspect.’
‘There is a suspect? The husband?’
‘I told you —’
‘You must know something.’
He tossed the remote onto the couch as he walked out of the room.
13
The front page of The Age on Saturday: Suspicious circumstances surrounding Maree Carver’s death. Brigitte looked up when Aidan walked into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a flannelette shirt — his RDO.
He examined the seldom-used fishing rods in the corner stand. ‘Ryan coming up today?’
‘I invited him, but he hasn’t called me back.’
‘Thought he might come fishing.’
‘Thought you hated fishing.’
‘People change.’
She stared at the end of the line, the fish hook glinting in the light.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, glancing at the paper. ‘They’ll be caught quickly.’
For a second she thought he was talking about fish. And then she didn’t believe him. She was pretty sure saltwater would make a tricky crime scene. She’d learnt about hydrophobic and hydrophilic substances in one of Sunny’s aromatherapy workshops. Oil — hydrophobic — and, she guessed, blood would be the only substances that could survive in water. Maybe the perpetrator had cut himself — or herself — on something. Or Maree might have bitten him while he was attacking her. If the husband didn’t confess, and they didn’t have the killer’s blood on Maree’s clothing, or under her fingernails or something, they’d have nothing.
She folded the paper, wanting to ask Aidan what happened if the perpetrator’s blood got mixed with the victim’s, but was too afraid of upsetting him again. If the blood got combined, she imagined, the forensics couldn’t analyse it. Double nothing.
She walked across and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘You’re turning into a local.’
‘Wearing a flanny when we met,’ he said. ‘Don’t remember you complaining then.’
The dead-celebrities party at that cocktail bar in the city. Nobody had been able to work out who he was dressed up — or not dressed up — as: Jeff Buckley. And she’d been Marilyn Monroe. She remembered the kick of lust in her pelvis. God, she’d wanted him so much. As much as Matt? A stupid thought.
‘Looking forward to fish for dinner.’ She stood on tiptoes to kiss his mouth, but he turned his face so it was on his cheek.
***
Ella was wearing a ridiculous Baby Dior dress that Joan had sent her. Finn was in his muddy, blue-and-white footy uniform; he smelled of sweat and after-game hot dog, which was overpowered by Jeremy’s disinfectant as they boarded the ferry.
Country music was absent. Jeremy told Brigitte that Scott was on leave.
Through the passenger saloon’s south-facing windows, Brigitte saw Harry’s fishing boat glide into the strait. She held her breath as Ella rushed outside and hung over the rails to wave. Time to stop procrastinating about swimming lessons. Brigitte remained seated with Finn on the bench seat next to the steel life-jacket box, Zippy lying at their feet.
Finn asked for the one-hundredth time if she’d seen that kick: the awkward, final-minute goal that had defeated Traralgon by one. He massaged the knee he’d twisted when he fell just as the ball left his boot for that kick. She ruffled his hair and he rested his head on her shoulder. He felt bigger — more substantial than he looked — when she wrapped an arm around him. He was growing up, and that made her feel happy but sad. And old.
Almost a decade since the doctors had whisked him — a tiny, skinny thing, covered in blood — away from her. He’d looked more like one of the rabbits hanging in Mike’s butcher shop than a baby. Once she’d been stitched back together after the caesarean, a nurse had wheeled her down to see the twins in the neonatal intensive-care unit. Finn was the smaller, the weaker. His skin was heartbreakingly translucent, like a single layer of paperbark. They’d put a white beanie on his head to keep him warm. The doctors told Brigitte she could hold Phoebe, but Finn was too fragile. She’d imagined him falling to pieces, like a broken doll. She’d had to be content with stroking his back and holding his doll-sized hand through the portholes of a clear-plastic crib. All around her, alarms were ringing as wires got crossed or babies stopped breathing. Code blues. She still remembered the names of the babies who never got to go home.
The morning before the twins were born, she’d told Sam something was wrong. The babies weren’t moving enough. He’d said she was imagining it, being a hypochondriac, as usual. He had to go to work — attending the dead was more important than the living of whom he’d created half — so she drove herself to the hospital, where she was admitted immediately.
Lights and a rush of people — concerned faces — blurred as they wheeled her on a trolley to the operating theatre. It was dinnertime and the smell of roast meat mingled with that of disinfectant in the corridors. The anaesthetist yelled at her to stop shaking — he couldn’t inject the anaesthetic into her spine. They were running out of time. There was no birth plan, aromatherapy oil, or relaxation music. A nurse had phoned Sam, and at first Brigitte thought he’d made it in time — that it was he in the gown and cap sitting beside the table onto which they slid her, numb from the waist down. But it was Ryan who held her hand as blood spattered onto the screen erected across her chest.
Where had the time gone? She remembered it passing very slowly in the NICU. There had been something wrong with the clock; the hands — like a Dali painting — didn’t quite reach the numbers so you were never quite sure what the time really was.
She hugged Finn tighter, brushed dried mud off his jersey. The ferry jutted against the landing, and she tugged at Zippy’s lead. Finn limped ahead. Ella skipped up to him and reached for his hand; he tried to flick her away, but she was persistent with her grip, and he didn’t really mind. Brigitte smiled at their backs — proud. They were good kids. She picked up the forgotten footy bag from the seat and followed, waving at Jeremy as they alighted.
‘Have a good weekend,’ Jeremy called. As he walked along the upper deck walkway, his arms seemed to be immobilised, slightly away from his body, like a penguin’s flippers.
They headed along the boardwalk towards Harry’s jetty, Brigitte sticking to the left and trying to restrain Zippy from attacking the black swans that ventured from the water.
She squinted and shaded her eyes. Phoebe was inside the boat’s cabin, at the helm with Harry. Aidan and Steve Williams sat on seats at the back. Aidan pushed up the peak of his cap and smiled. He looked relaxed; his cheeks were pink.
‘Hey, Brig!’ Steve beamed. He was sunburnt. ‘Look what we got for dinner.’ He reached into a bucket, held up a fish by its tail, but dropped it over the side when it started flapping. She screwed up her face and stopped at the start of the jetty — as close to the water as she ever went. Zippy barked. She patted his head.
As the boat drew close, Aidan lassoed a rope over a post and guided her in. He placed a hand on the starboard side — no, the port
side. Brigitte could never remember which was which — and jumped over onto the jetty.
‘Any port in a storm,’ Brigitte said. Joan used to say that, with a bottle in her hand. For years, Brigitte had thought it was a mnemonic to remember the parts of a boat.
A breeze rippled the water, and sunbeams made a silver lustre on the wavelets. Steve took his hanky out of his pocket and held it to his nose. He dropped it on the floor, and Brigitte couldn’t see if he re-pocketed it. Gross. He took off his fishing gloves, reached for the bucket, tripped on a rope, swore, and lost another fish.
Aidan stretched out a hand to help Phoebe while Harry secured the boat. Steve scrambled onto the jetty — not as gracefully as Aidan; his legs weren’t as long.
Aidan walked down to Brigitte, encircled her in his arms, and bent to kiss her — the beer talking.
She pushed him away. ‘You smell like fish and beer.’ And cigarettes.
‘Ryan here yet?’ He patted Zippy, who smiled and slobbered, and smacked him with his tail.
Brigitte shook her head. ‘Maybe tonight.’
Steve — mirrored sunglasses, face aglow with sunburn, freckles like a join-the-dots puzzle on his arms — showed them how to scale a fish on an old card table in the backyard. Brigitte and Aidan wrinkled their noses and sipped beers.
Harry watched from the porch couch, feet perched on the coffee table, shaking his head, amused. ‘Sure you don’t want a hand?’
Steve ignored his advice about using the wrong kind of knife. Brigitte looked away when he got to the gutting and filleting part.
‘You need an Uncle Henry fillet knife, mate,’ Harry said. He started telling a story about the time he and Jeremy had found a dying dolphin trapped in a ghost net, and Harry had used his Uncle Henry to put it out of its misery. Brigitte’s impression that Harry and Jeremy barely knew each other must have been wrong: Harry said they used to work together.
Brigitte didn’t want to hear the details about the dolphin-killing, so she headed towards the house to check on the kids. She heard the flutter of wings. Cheeky.
‘Fuck!’ Steve yelled and shooed away the bird.
Brigitte turned in the doorway to see him drop the steak knife, the tip of his index finger sliced. She went in to get a Band-Aid.
The kids were watching TV in the lounge room. She turned it off and told them to go play outside.
She was searching through the bathroom cabinet when her mobile rang. Joan. Hysterical. Probably drunk. She could barely make out what she was saying: Ryan, hospital, pills. She found the edge of the bath with her backside. ‘Is Ryan OK?’
More about the hospital, attempted suicide, some sobs.
‘Stop!’
‘Why are you yelling at me?’
‘Two things: Is he OK? Which hospital?’
More sobs. ‘I told you to call him.’
‘Two things, Mum!’
There was some more melodrama before she got the two things.
Outside, Phoebe was tapping a cricket bat on the ground in front of the wheelie bin; Steve was bowling — sliced finger ignored — and Aidan, Finn, and Harry were fielding. Ella was kneeling on the opposite side of the yard, scratching roads in the dirt for ants, her Baby Dior dress filthy.
Steve ran backwards, arms up, to catch the tennis ball Phoebe had smacked into the air. ‘Out!’
Phoebe argued that she hadn’t been ready. Steve threw the ball up, caught it, and looked across at Brigitte standing on the porch. ‘Where’s my Band-Aid?’
She leaned back against the door frame, legs wobbly.
‘Oh, Jesus. What’s wrong, love?’
She called for Aidan.
‘I’ll drive you,’ Aidan said as he filled two glasses with water from the tap.
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Coupla beers on Harry’s boat. One since we’ve been home. I’m fine.’ He placed one glass in front of her and drank from the other. ‘Williams is the only one who’s pissed.’ He glanced out into the yard.
‘I’m OK.’
‘I’ll drive you.’ His policeman’s voice. ‘Harry can watch the kids for a few hours. He’s only had one beer.’
‘I’ll have to stay overnight.’
‘With Rosie?’
She frowned. ‘At Kerry’s.’
‘I’ll ring her while you pack.’
The ferry was at capacity. Jeremy smiled and sauntered over to ask where they were headed.
‘Brig’s brother’s a bit under the weather in the city,’ Aidan said. ‘Taking her down to visit him.’
‘That’s no good.’ Jeremy switched his smile to concern and ducked his head to see Brigitte. ‘Sorry to hear that.’
She nodded.
‘Any news?’ Jeremy asked Aidan.
‘About what?’
‘Maree Carver.’
‘No.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘A few persons of interest I believe, but it’s not a local investigation.’
‘Yeah, best leave the serious stuff to the city coppers, eh?’
Brigitte saw Aidan’s jaw clench, and his arm muscles ripple through his shirt.
‘What about the husband?’ Jeremy said.
Aidan shook his head and crossed his arms.
‘I was watching telly the other night,’ Jeremy said. ‘Is it true that coppers install bugs behind suspects’ power points?’
‘Yeah.’ The listening device thing was one of the most common cop-questions Aidan got asked. ‘And the ceiling. Places you’d never expect, mate.’
Jeremy crossed his arms and nodded.
At the police community-information van on The Esplanade, an overweight man with grey hair and a takeaway coffee stood in line behind a young couple with a toddler licking an ice-cream in a pink stroller. Bouquets and wreaths of flowers were piling up on the wharf and around the Bateau House. Vehicles belonging to the media circus took up most of the parking spaces on the foreshore. Alongside reporters and make-up artists, punters were taking photos of the crime scene. Brigitte closed her eyes.
14
If you love me, you’ll come in, Matt said. The warm silkiness of his skin against hers was unbearable; she had an urge to bite his shoulder, but rested her chin on it instead. A dolphin — water spray glittering off its body — arced across the moon, a perfect white circle. The dolphin leapt again, but it was tangled in a grey, threadbare net. Once more it emerged and thrashed against the net, a knife protruding from its back. If you love me, if you love me, if you love me … The water became rough; it rocked and pummelled her. Matt was gone; he’d left her caught in the net with the cold, slimy dolphin smashing against her. She coughed and kicked and struggled until there was no air left. Red light on glass. Lifebuoy is for saving lives. I love you, Aidan said. He kissed her forehead and zipped up the body bag over her face.
She opened her eyes, coughed, rubbed her face, and reached down for the water bottle in her bag.
‘Nearly there,’ Aidan said as he indicated and turned the car into Victoria Parade. ‘Want to get out at the drop-off zone while I find a park?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘That’s just for patients.’ She wasn’t sure if she could go in at all, and certainly not alone.
They walked from the car park together. Traffic rumbled, an air conditioner whirred; Brigitte heard construction going on somewhere. She looked at her feet as they approached the main entrance. Cigarette butts littered the grey concrete.
She froze outside the automatic doors, couldn’t go in. The last truck stop before Saint Peter’s: had her father said that when he was dying, or was it a song? Aidan placed a hand in the small of her back and coaxed her through. He must have been tired of all her stupid phobias. The doors closed behind them, silencing the city sounds.
Panic kicked like a violent foetus in her stom
ach and sent ice water down her arms. It was the smell that did it. Disinfectant or cleaning products? The smell of death and dying. The smell of terror. She had stayed in hospital for a long time, had almost died there — twice. Sam had died on the way to hospital; Aidan, and Finn and Phoebe had almost died there. The statistics of dying there? Odds on, she bet. God, she was going to cry, couldn’t help it. She tickled the roof of her mouth with her tongue, and fumbled in her bag for tissues.
Aidan helped her find a seat, and she waited, staring at the shiny Get well balloons in the shop, while he went up to ask the receptionist where Ryan was.
‘Would you like one?’
‘Jesus!’ She jumped, and looked up at a guy in a rabbit suit.
‘No, the Easter Bunny.’
He held out his basket of chocolate eggs, and she shook her head.
She tried to do her deep diaphragm breathing and counting as the Easter Bunny walked away — in through her nose, out through her mouth. Breathe, breathe, breathe, one, two, three … Get me the fuck out of here. She stood up and paced the reception area.
Ryan was asleep, pale, attached to tubes and wires, an oxygen mask on his face. The ICU seemed to buzz as if it were alive, a hive. The heart-rate monitor blipped like submarine sonar or the old Pong arcade game. The doctor told Brigitte that Ryan had taken sleeping tablets — benzodiazepine — and alcohol, but he was going to be OK. He’d had his stomach pumped and was receiving fluids through an IV drip.
She remembered the drill. And she knew exactly how he’d feel when he woke up: the worst hangover ever.
‘A neighbour saw him through the window, lying on the floor, and called an ambulance.’ The doctor’s lanyard clicked against her shirt buttons as she spoke. ‘Lucky.’
Brigitte felt herself drifting, and heard her heartbeat loud in her ears as the doctor’s voice grew faint. She had to get out — the reception area with the Easter Bunny, on the street breathing traffic fumes, anywhere but in here. She’d come back tomorrow, when the doctor had said Ryan would be awake.
She hurried out, stopped, and looked back. Why hadn’t she called him? She had. Left messages, anyway. Why hadn’t she been more persistent? What had happened? Why wasn’t Rosie here? Panic ebbed, guilt flowed. She took a breath, walked back to him, pushed a flop of sandy hair off his face and kissed his forehead. His skin felt dry; dark shadows rimmed his eyes like a racoon’s. She should have listened to Joan. She scraped up a chair, sat, and held his hand for a while.
Dead in the Water Page 7