Dead in the Water

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Dead in the Water Page 11

by Tania Chandler


  The twins looked up at Brigitte and then back to what they were doing.

  Ella squealed and ran to her. Brigitte scooped her up and peppered her little fairy face with kisses.

  ‘Where’s Aid?’ she asked Harry over Ella’s shoulder.

  ‘Work,’ Harry said.

  ‘Thought he had an early shift today.’

  Harry shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

  Her stomach churned. She lowered Ella to the floor, and headed to the kitchen to check Aidan’s roster stuck on the fridge. No arvo or night shift.

  Harry walked into the room.

  ‘What happened to the screen door?’ she said.

  ‘Fell off.’

  ‘Zippy?’

  ‘No. Aid. Tried to fix it, but I think it’s broken.’

  Brigitte walked across to inspect the rail.

  ‘Seen the CCTV?’ Harry said.

  She straightened up and shook her head.

  ‘They got footage of Maree Carver on the ferry. It’s on The Age website.’ Harry was behind her; he placed a hand on her back. ‘There’s leftovers in the fridge for your dinner.’

  ‘Thanks. And for watching the kids.’

  ‘Anytime, mate,’ he said on his way out.

  She should have thrown Dead in the Water in the bin, but she went to the bedroom and put it in her underwear drawer.

  Steve Williams — serious, suited, sober — spoke slowly at a media conference. Victoria Police emblem — laurel wreath and five-point star — on a blue screen behind him. ‘The footage depicts Maree boarding the ferry at Paynesville and alighting at Raymond Island.’

  Cut to footage of the ferry. The shapes in the video were black and white and grey — grainy, distorted, elongated. It looked windy, cold. Pale lights rippled the water. Scott spoke to Maree Carver briefly as she walked on, her face visible for only a split second; the rest of the vision was of her back.

  Poor Scott. He must have been the last person to see her alive. No wonder he was on stress leave.

  Maree Carver was wearing a light-coloured trench coat, dark leggings, high heels, handbag on the crook of her arm. She walked through the passenger saloon to the front of the ferry. She stopped, looked in the direction of the island, hair whipping around her shoulders. She pulled the hood of her coat on.

  Brigitte shivered.

  Steve’s voice over the video: ‘No other pedestrians appear to board, but the footage depicts two cars travelling on the ferry. We’re appealing for anyone who was there on that evening to contact Crime Stoppers. We’re interested in talking to anyone who was in the Paynesville or Raymond Island area between the hours of 10pm and midnight on Thursday seventh of March who may have seen Maree, or indeed anyone who knows who the people in the cars are. We’re particularly interested in talking to the person driving the Subaru station wagon, or the dark-coloured Lexus depicted in the footage who appears to be talking to Maree.’

  Maree Carver leaned over the passenger rail, saying something to somebody in the Lexus, the driver out of shot.

  ‘If anyone knows anything or thinks they can assist in this investigation, we urge them to contact Crime Stoppers. Investigators are continuing to work through CCTV footage. We’re also conducting other inquiries and investigations. We currently have around two hundred calls to Crime Stoppers which we need to scrutinise thoroughly.’

  Back to vision of Steve.

  ‘The footage was taken on the Raymond Island ferry. Around 10.50pm is the last confirmed sighting of Maree alive,’ he said.

  Video. Maree Carver walked off the ferry onto the island. The footage replayed from the start.

  Steve took questions. A media person asked a question that was muffled, difficult to hear.

  ‘She doesn’t make the return trip, no,’ Steve answered.

  ‘Red, right, return,’ Ella said.

  Brigitte looked away from her laptop screen, at Ella standing in the bedroom doorway.

  ‘It’s how you find your way back when you’re on a boat. I saw it on telly. But Harry says that’s wrong. It’s only in America. Here, it’s red, left, return, because the boys have red marks on the other side. But I think red, right, return sounds better. Don’t you?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘The boys, in the water.’

  Oh, the buoys.

  Ella ran off; Brigitte closed her laptop and sat it next to her on the bed. She rested her hands on her knees and frowned up at her cream trench coat hanging by its hood over the door.

  21

  A shove. A hand gripping her shoulder, shaking her. She opened her eyes. Aidan was a shadow, the doorway illuminated behind him by the kitchen light. She blinked. He shook her again, and dragged her up by the arm.

  ‘Nothing’s ever good enough for you, is it?’

  In a sleep-fog, she pulled her arm away and sat up against the bedhead. She glanced at the clock radio: 11.55pm.

  ‘Moving down here, your perfect writing job, me.’

  ‘Shh. You’ll wake the kids.’

  ‘How could you do this to me? To us?’

  What?

  He leaned down, close to her face, alcohol on his breath. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  She tried to fob him off with a feeble fake laugh. ‘Don’t be silly. Come to bed.’

  ‘Elery.’ The name rang in the air for a moment, and then he snatched her off the bed by her pyjama lapels, close enough that she could see his eyes — almost black, glittering like marcasite in the half-light. ‘You think I’m fucking stupid.’

  She was shocked, scared, but then she felt him trembling. ‘Stop it, Aid. You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘And you think you’re such a good liar. Well, you’re not. And I’m not Sam, or any of the other men you tricked.’ He spat the words and she turned her face.

  He was holding her up so tightly she was forced to stand on tiptoes. ‘Aidan, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘I know what you do and how you do it. Once a —’ He didn’t finish, let go, pushed her back onto the bed, and walked out.

  She lay with her hands clasped over her stomach, felt her heartbeat pounding there, while he banged around in the kitchen.

  She felt eyes on her. Ella standing in the doorway, holding Purple Monkey — a forgotten comfort toy that hadn’t seen outside the toy box in at least a year.

  ‘I had a bad dream,’ she croaked.

  Brigitte pushed down the doona, and Ella climbed into bed.

  ‘That noise is scary.’

  ‘Daddy’s just making a snack.’ She enfolded her in her arms.

  She lay awake for a long time after Aidan’s outburst, listening to the wind and rain menacing the outside of the house.

  22

  Aidan stood at the edge of the first jetty. Help me, she said without words, and he kneeled and reached for her hands. One hand slipped from his grip; she held tighter with the other, but something sucked her under the water, dragged her away from him. She fought to the surface, and saw Papa — wearing an electric-blue suit — standing in the public phone box on the island. She tried to call to him as she was pulled under again.

  She heard a rasp — the sound of her breath — as she woke. She coughed and kicked off the doona. The sweat on her skin turned icy.

  Ella was still asleep — full lips slightly apart, chest rising and falling gently, cuddling Purple Monkey. Brigitte pulled up the doona and smoothed it over her little shoulders. Zippy watched; he filled almost all of the Aidan-sized space on the bed. He licked her hand, made her feel safe.

  When he got off the bed and whined, she let him out. There was a blanket folded neatly under a pillow at the end of the couch in the lounge room, and half a plunger of lukewarm coffee on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, but no Aidan. The clock above the sink ticked: twenty pa
st six. Her arm hurt as she made fresh coffee. She rolled up her sleeve, saw bruises, and pushed the sleeve back down quickly.

  She pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, and took her coffee out onto the porch. The early morning light reminded her of old photographs: black-and-white, tinged with blue. Birds chirped and squawked. A breeze rustled through the solemn eucalypts at the fence-line. Harry’s front light was on — comforting, somehow. He’d be getting ready for his morning walk around the island.

  She felt a pinch in her back as she slumped on the cold porch couch. Today, pain was an old friend: a welcome distraction.

  A little blue bird perched on the arm of the couch. A fairy-wren, like the one on Kerry’s mug. It tick-tock tilted its bright blue head, and seemed to look at her for a long time.

  ‘Papa?’ she whispered, and then told herself to stop being silly.

  A kookaburra laughed and the fairy-wren flew away. She wrapped her hands tighter around her coffee mug; the steam swirled like a ghost in front of her face.

  Zippy slobbered a tennis ball at her feet. She knew this game and refused to be drawn into it, so he trotted off to bury a bone instead. She placed her coffee on the porch and closed her eyes. So tired. A rubbish truck rumbled and whirred along a nearby street, a car started reluctantly after a few tries, and the first ferry wailed.

  She must have dozed off for a while — until she heard Ella padding around in the kitchen. She went inside and told her to put on slippers.

  Brigitte looked up from making the school lunches, cutting off the crusts, and saw Harry shuffling from foot to foot on the porch. She walked over, knife still in hand, and slid open the door. He told her to close it behind her. She didn’t like his tone, but did as he said, stepping out onto the mat.

  ‘Zippy,’ he said.

  She frowned.

  ‘Found him down near the old ferry site.’

  A beat. ‘What do you mean found him? He’s in the backyard.’ She looked around Harry.

  Harry gazed at his white walking shoes.

  She shook her head, rubbed her face, and leaned back against the door. Inside, Ella was crying about something and Finn was giggling. A magpie warbled as it performed aeronautics over the yard. She sucked in her breath and straightened up. ‘Was it a car?’

  Harry evaded her eyes.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Finn stuck his head out the door.

  ‘I’ll be in in a minute.’ Her voice was too high and sweet, teetering on the edge of control. ‘Make sure the girls stay inside with you, please.’

  Finn opened his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off with her repeated instructions and he did as he was told.

  ‘Carried him back to my place,’ Harry said.

  She couldn’t believe him; she stepped off the porch, her dressing gown billowing behind her, and marched in the direction of Harry’s house, throwing the knife onto the grass.

  ‘Don’t go over there,’ Harry called. ‘Stop!’

  She didn’t stop.

  The gate was swinging off its top hinge. Why the fuck hadn’t she organised to have it fixed? She kicked at it. Her little toe cracked and her slipper flew off. She hopped to where it had landed, pulled it back on, kicked the gate harder, slipped, and landed on her bum on the wet grass.

  Harry caught up and crouched beside her. ‘It wasn’t a car, Brig.’

  She started to get up, but Harry put a hand firmly on her shoulder.

  ‘His throat,’ Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he seemed to struggle to swallow, ‘was cut.’

  She stared at him, opened her mouth but couldn’t form any words. She crossed her legs and lowered her head, held it in her hands, not caring that her dressing gown had fallen open.

  ‘You need to call Aid.’

  She rocked slowly.

  ‘I’ll call him if you like.’ Harry’s voice went up a few decibels.

  ‘No. I will,’ she whispered. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  She took her phone to the privacy of the little tin shed down the back of the yard. Spiders had taken over long ago; thick, dusty webs blanketed old kids’ bikes, chairs, shovels, and a broken outboard motor from God knows where. She’d stuck the pram in there last week, not yet ready to give it away or take it to the tip — the spiders hadn’t started on it yet. She left the door open a crack and called Aidan. He said he was busy, didn’t have time to talk. She heard typing.

  ‘Zippy’s been murdered,’ she said as she sat on a chair. Her voice was cold, accusatory: Why didn’t you tell me Maree Carver was murdered on the island? Why didn’t you fix the gate?

  ‘What?’ The typing ceased.

  She struggled to keep up the hard voice; it hurt, faltered as she spoke. ‘Harry found him.’

  ‘What do you mean “murdered”?’

  ‘Somebody cut his throat, Aidan.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She gripped the pram handle.

  ‘I’ll be there ASAP.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She rocked the pram and tried to breathe.

  Fucking Carla Flanagan was driving the car, Aidan riding shotgun.

  ‘You get an investigation started,’ he said across the roof to Flanagan as they stepped out, ‘and I’ll go talk to the next-door neighbour.’

  ‘Conflict of interest. You can’t be involved with this.’

  He ignored her and took a camera and some gloves from the car.

  ‘Daddy’s home!’ Ella squealed as she stepped through the broken gate. Then she saw the other cop and, uncertain, clutched Brigitte’s dressing gown.

  Aidan winked at Ella. He needed a shave; his shirt was un-tucked at the back. ‘I’ll come and see you soon, sweetie.’ He strode across to Harry’s without looking at Brigitte.

  Brigitte took Ella’s hand and led her to the back door. ‘Can you go and see what the twins are up to?’ She gave her a gentle shove and closed the door behind her.

  Brigitte and Flanagan sat on the porch couch and started doing the paperwork: date, time, location. She could smell Flanagan’s spicy fragrance. Maybe something with frankincense? Didn’t make her sneeze. She suggested they wait for Harry because she was unclear about the details, but Flanagan said approximates would be all right. Because it’s just an animal? Brigitte tried to wiggle her throbbing little toe; maybe it was broken. Focusing on the pain kept her from crying.

  Cheeky flew at Flanagan, and she swore and shooed him away. She looked about as at one with nature as Brigitte did.

  Flanagan composed herself quickly and continued with the investigation. ‘So, the neighbour found the dog —’

  ‘Zippy.’

  ‘— at the old Raymond Island ferry site?’

  Matter-of-fact, routine cop-manner. Just doing her job. Cold bitch.

  ‘Is that correct?’ She looked up for Brigitte’s answer.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘At approximately what time was that?’

  She stared down at her grass-stained dressing gown and slippers. ‘I can’t remember what time Harry said.’

  ‘Harry is the neighbour who found the dog. And Harry’s surname is?’

  ‘Stanton.’ She took a deep breath and lifted her gaze to the slate-grey sky as she exhaled.

  ‘You right to continue?’ Flanagan said.

  ‘Yes. But I need a coffee first. Would you like one?’

  Flanagan declined the offer, and Brigitte left her with her stupid fucking investigation. In the kitchen, she zapped a mug of plunger coffee in the microwave, contemplating adding a splash of whisky. The kids rushed in when they heard the ding, wanting to know what was going on.

  ‘Why’s that other cop here?’ Finn.

  ‘Did you get another parking ticket, Mummy?’ Ella.

  Brigitte said she’d be in to tell them everything in a minute.

  ‘Why c
an’t you tell us now?’ Phoebe.

  ‘I said “in a minute”.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Because I said …’ She clenched her fists.

  Finn and Ella took backward steps.

  ‘Are we going to school today?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘No.’ She took the coffee out.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re not going today.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Enough!’ She slammed the mug on the breakfast bar and burned her hand with coffee.

  Finn and Ella scuttled into the lounge room, but Phoebe held her ground. ‘You OK, Mum?’

  She sniffed and nodded as she ran cold water over her hand.

  ‘Sorry for making you angry.’

  Her shoulders slumped. She heard cartoons bubbling away in the lounge room. ‘Go watch some TV.’

  Phoebe’s gaze warmed her back for a moment before she left the room to join Finn and Ella.

  Outside, Aidan was standing with his arms folded on the porch, and Harry was sitting on the couch with Flanagan.

  ‘I was just on my morning walk when I spotted something near the water,’ Harry said. ‘First I thought it was a dead kangaroo, then I saw all the …’ he noticed Brigitte standing in the doorway and hesitated, ‘blood around his head.’

  She leaned against the doorframe, nauseated.

  ‘You didn’t see any other blood spatter in the vicinity?’ Flanagan said.

  Harry shook his head, and Flanagan made a note.

  ‘I wrapped my windcheater around him,’ Harry said.

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Around seven-fifteen.’

  ‘At the old Raymond Island ferry site?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Quite a distance to carry a dead big dog.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Sure that’s where you found it?’

  Harry frowned. ‘Yeah.’

  Flanagan looked up at Brigitte. ‘Mr Stanton’s been very helpful, so we won’t be needing any more information from you. No point upsetting you further.’

  Brigitte caught Flanagan’s glance at Aidan. ‘Thanks for that.’ She gritted her teeth.

 

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