If only there could be no choice: just an incident, an accident. And it would all be over. A coward’s thoughts. I am a COWARD.
Exercise used to make me feel better. I go to the gym, and I run and run, but now I CAN’T GET AWAY FROM IT. Whatever the fuck IT is.
Williams thinks I’m losing it. I made the mistake of sharing with him my hunch about mistaken identity in the Carver file. Now he says I’m not to be involved in any way with that investigation. I don’t trust him and
‘What’s that?’ Ella burst into the room.
‘Nothing.’ Brigitte snapped the notebook shut.
She’d known something was wrong. She must have. How long? Laurie Hunt? Aidan had seemed to get better for a while after that. Since they’d moved here? Maree Carver? Matt Elery? It was hard to remember the beginning. Beginnings are sudden but amorphous — shifty; you don’t recognise them at the time, can only see them blurred in unreliable hindsight. She’d been busy with the kids, work, and her own problems. She’d let it slide.
Even Carla knew — that’s why she’d told her that story about her ex, but Brigitte had been too self-absorbed to take any notice. Too obsessed with Matt’s stupid book at the time. Why didn’t she have any gears between conclusion-jumping and denial? She’d learnt at a young age — from the master — that denial was an easy pill to swallow. The long-term side effects, not so simple. Your father just has a cold. Chin up, Brigitte, you have to be strong, people are watching. Put the bottles in a bag before you throw them in the bin, so the neighbours don’t see. I’m not crying, I’ve just got something in my eye.
She saw eight-year-old Brigitte standing against the wall in the kitchen of the old pink house in Brunswick, looking at Joan, drunk, slumped over the laminex table. She didn’t want to wake her, in case she lashed out and hurt her, or vomited everywhere and she’d have to clean it up and keep it a secret. But what if her mother died and she hadn’t done anything to help? She was scared; her legs were shaking and she needed to pee. Ryan was in his room, crying. She wanted their dad back. It was all up to her to take responsibility for something that was way beyond her control.
When eight-year-old Brigitte had finally summoned enough courage to move off the wall and approach her mother at the table, Joan had sat up, reached for her brandy, swore as she’d spilt it, and then licked it off her hand.
Brigitte pushed away the childhood memory, present issues suddenly far more pressing.
‘You got something in your eye, Mummy?’ Ella said.
Brigitte shook her head, put the notebook away, and pretended to straighten things in a drawer.
46
The TV reporter said: East Gippsland is in mourning for a highly respected and much-loved police officer killed when a high-speed car chase went wrong. Bairnsdale Detective Sergeant Raymond Perry, thirty-nine, died after his vehicle struck a tree, and police and paramedics were unable to revive him. A photograph of Ray in uniform lit up the screen. Two youths involved were allegedly under the influence of the drug ice when their car ran off the road. The car was allegedly stolen after the youths broke into a home in Bairnsdale. The offenders were hospitalised with critical injuries. Back to the reporter. Methamphetamine has been a factor in five road deaths out of twenty fatal accidents in the region in the past year. A community forum on ice use is being held in Bairnsdale next month, following similar crisis meetings in other regional centres. This incident also again raises the issue of whether police should engage in such dangerous chase situations.
Also in East Gippsland, police continue their search for the killer of celebrity chef Maree Carver whose body was found —
Brigitte muted the sound with the remote and turned Ella away from the TV news as she dried her hair.
‘Can you do it like yours?’ Ella asked, looking up at the towel turbaned around Brigitte’s head.
She tried to twist Ella’s hair up, but the towel refused to stay in place.
‘Will Daddy be home tonight?’
She buttoned Ella’s Tweety Bird pyjamas. ‘I’ll ring him again as soon as you’re in bed.’ She pulled her little body close, and nuzzled her hair. The smells of clean, and vanilla, filled her nose.
‘Let’s go brush your teeth.’ She led Ella to the bathroom.
Phoebe didn’t come when she was called, of course. Brigitte had to yell three more times before she did as she was told and got ready for bed. She refused to put on pyjamas, so Brigitte threw up her arms and told her to sleep in her bloody clothes.
Ella had bagsed Finn’s bed while he was sleeping over at his friend Luca Buchanan’s house. Finn had said he didn’t mind, and Phoebe had looked up from her iPod and said ‘whatever’.
Ella chose a bedtime book: Just Me and My Dad. Brigitte suggested something else, something Phoebe might like to listen to as well, but Ella insisted on Just Me and My Dad. The bed frame rocked as Phoebe turned in the top bunk to face the wall.
Ella fell asleep while Brigitte was reading, and Brigitte nodded off next to her with the book open across her chest.
Knock. Knock. Brigitte opened her eyes. The back door? Knock. In a sleep-haze, she wondered why Aidan was knocking; had he forgotten his keys? She sat up and whacked her head, still in the towel turban, on the top bunk.
She tossed the towel over a chair as she stumbled through the house, rubbing her eyes. They’d left the lights on. In the glass door, she saw her hair sticking out like Medusa’s snakes. Harry was standing on the porch, holding a bunch of flowers that looked a little worse for wear. He was eyeing the ground, shuffling from foot to foot. She glanced at the clock above the sink: just after midnight. She frowned and slid open the door. Something made her leave the security door locked.
‘It’s late, Harry.’ She tried to smooth her hair, and fiddled with the zip of her Hello Kitty onesie, made sure it was done up as high as it could go.
‘Yeah, I know, but I saw ya lights on.’
There was alcohol on his breath, and dirt on his jacket.
‘I came to apologise.’ He held out the flowers, a goofy smile on his face. ‘For the other night.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Lucky thoughts don’t count, but.’ He hiccupped.
Tate bubbled to mind. Yes, lucky.
‘Sorry, mate.’
He looked sad and pathetic: good old Harry, her friend, being silly. She knew all about silly. She uncrossed her arms, unlocked the three locks, and opened the door.
Harry stepped inside and proffered the flowers, telling her he’d had another date that hadn’t worked out. She clocked the bandage on his left hand, the graze on his face, his yellow hi-vis beanie.
‘Shit news about Ray Perry.’
She sighed and nodded.
‘Kiss You All Over’. They both looked at her phone shimmying on the breakfast bar. Aidan? Brigitte rushed across to it. ‘Unknown caller’ on the screen. She hesitated, glancing at the time again, before she answered.
‘Brig.’ The line was crackly.
‘Aid, whose phone is this?’
‘Doesn’t matter. And it’s nearly dead so —’
‘Are you all right? Where are you?’ It sounded like he was driving.
‘On my way back from Melbourne. ’Bout an hour —’ Static. ‘… this thing called familial DNA matching.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just listen to me. You can’t do it on the National database, but some jurisdictions have the ability within their own systems.’ He was talking too fast. ‘I got an old mate to try a familial search on the state system for me. And it matched. It fucking matched.’
Not rational. Not normal. Easy to imagine him tearing Matt’s book to pieces. ‘What matched?’
‘The human DNA in the blood mixture on Zippy and at the Carver crime scene.’
Her heart lost a
beat, and she felt hot.
‘Both samples matched Laurie Hunt.’
And then cold. Fuck, he’d completely lost it, must have been seeing dead people again. She should have organised crisis counselling, shouldn’t have let him leave the house. ‘Don’t be silly, Aid.’ She struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘You know Laurie Hunt’s dead.’ She sounded like a kindergarten teacher: You know there’s no such thing as monsters.
‘I don’t have time to explain it. I’ve called the Water Police and the Coast Guard. Stay inside the house, somebody will come up to get you and the kids.’ More static.
Oh God. Tomorrow’s headline: Crazy cop’s hoax call costs taxpayers thousands.
‘And make sure the alarm system’s turned on.’
‘But —’
‘Just do as I say. And get the gun.’
‘Aidan, you’re scaring me.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as —’ The phone died.
Harry asked what was up. She looked at his flowers still clutched in her hand; they were trembling. ‘Something’s wrong with Aid.’
Ella raced across the kitchen towards her, sobbing. Not another bad dream?
She dumped the flowers on the table, crouched and squeezed Ella’s arms — too tightly. Ella pulled away, complaining that Brigitte was hurting her. ‘Just a bad dream. Now let’s get you back into bed.’
Ella shook her head. ‘Phoebe’s not in bed.’
‘Yes, she is. You can’t see her in the top bunk from down the bottom.’
‘I climbed up.’
Brigitte frowned, she didn’t have time for this; she needed to call the station, and to help find Aidan, somehow.
‘Phoebe’s gone.’
‘Stop being silly, Ella.’
Ella screamed that she wasn’t being silly.
Brigitte glanced at Harry as she stood.
Ella wasn’t fibbing: Phoebe’s bed was empty. Brigitte climbed the ladder and flung back the doona, just to be sure. She must be in the bathroom.
Harry called out, asking if Phoebe was there. She couldn’t answer. She swayed, and in the bathroom mirror saw her face turn white. Ella clinging to her leg like a starfish sucked her back. She scooped her up, ignoring the pain it caused, and flew back into the kitchen. Harry told her not to get in a tizz yet; he’d have a look around outside while she searched the rest of the house.
Breathe. Don’t panic. Brigitte sat Ella at the table with a mug of cold Milo. The kid always jumps out from behind the clothing rack. But it was late this time.
Harry had left the back door ajar. Thank God the rain had stopped. At least Phoebe wouldn’t be wet out wherever she was. But she’d be cold. Brigitte hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms, trying to remember what Phoebe had been wearing. Pink Converse sneakers? She couldn’t think what else. She had a flash of explaining to the police that she couldn’t even recall what her missing daughter had been wearing, and why she hadn’t been in her pyjamas so late at night.
Maybe Phoebe was hiding in a cupboard? Brigitte and Ryan used to do that to scare Joan when they were little, but they usually got bored of hiding before Joan even noticed they were missing.
She searched the house twice, looking in cupboards, under beds, behind chairs, couches. Everywhere. Oh, my Phoebe, my little Phoebe, where are you? Not here.
Harry came back inside, shaking his head, his face pink and his hair like a cockatoo’s crest from the wind. ‘You don’t think Aid could’ve had something to do with —’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She wasn’t going to admit that the thought had crossed her mind.
Ella tugged at Brigitte’s onesie.
‘What!’
‘Please don’t be angry.’ Ella produced from her pyjama pocket a piece of paper. Phoebe’s handwriting.
‘Where was this?’
‘On Phoebe’s bed.’
Mummy I luv you more than the world but tired of you and Aidan fighting and you always angry at me. Going to my friend’s house. Don’t worry. Luv Phoebe xo.
Some relief. Brigitte called Emily and Josh’s house. Phoebe wasn’t there. Ring Carla? No, the station. Her phone rang before she’d found the number in her ‘Contacts’. It was Sarah, Luca Buchanan’s mum, apologising for ringing so late, but Finn was distraught.
Finn: ‘Phoebe’s in the water, Mum.’
Icy panic. ‘What?’
‘That feeling.’
She could hear the call-waiting tone.
‘The twin feeling. Or a dream,’ he said.
‘A dream?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’
‘Shh. Phoebe’s OK.’ Her voice was scratchy. ‘Be a good boy now, and go back to bed for Sarah.’
‘But Mum —’
‘Please, Finn. I have to go. I love you.’
She took the incoming call, and went outside, closing the door behind her. Her legs wobbled, almost gave way, but she made it to the porch couch. Steve Williams on the line.
‘Have you found Phoebe?’ she said.
‘What?’
Without taking a breath, she blurted to Steve everything that had happened. He cut her off, told her to calm down; it sounded like Phoebe had just gone to a friend’s house.
‘But she’s not at her best friend’s house, and nobody else has called me.’ Nobody had called because Phoebe hadn’t made it to her friend’s house. She thought of Zippy, of Maree Carver. Phoebe’s in the water, Mum. Very cold. Oh God, oh God, oh God. It was all her fault — how hadn’t she heard Phoebe sneaking out and woken up? She wheezed, no air in her lungs.
‘I want you to take some deep breaths, Brigitte. Can you do that for me?’ Steve said.
She nodded and tried. It hurt.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll find Phoebe.’ Steve’s voice was calm and reassuring, and she was able to get her breathing under control, back in her diaphragm.
‘Are Ella and Finn with you?’ Steve asked.
She glanced into the kitchen; it looked like Ella and Harry were playing a game or singing a song.
‘Ella’s here, Finn’s having a sleepover at his friend’s house.’
‘Friend’s name?’
‘Luca Buchanan.’
‘Is Aidan home?’
‘No. He had to do some work in Melbourne.’
‘Don’t know anything about that.’
‘He just called, said all this weird stuff. I’m really worried about him, Steve.’
‘What kind of weird stuff?’
‘Familial DNA testing or something. Do you know what that is?’
‘Not really. Not something we use in Australia.’
‘He said he’d called out the Water Police and the Coast Guard.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Half an hour.’
Some typing. ‘It’s all right,’ Steve said. ‘No calls have been logged to those services.’
‘And, Steve, he was talking about Laurie Hunt.’
A pause. ‘Hang on a sec.’
He put her on hold for what seemed like an hour.
‘Sorry. Another urgent call. Don’t worry, Brigitte. We’ve teed up some counselling for Aidan. He’ll be OK. Right now our priority is Phoebe.’
She nodded.
‘And Brigitte. We have another problem.’
The wind blew through the eucalypts at the fence-line.
‘Is Harry there?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Can he hear you?’
‘No, I’m outside. Why?’
‘I want you to answer casually yes or no when I ask this question.’ Steve’s tone wasn’t calm and reassuring — it was measured. A tone used for keeping things under control — dealing with victims or the suicidal, hostage negotiation: those on the edge. Something had happened to Phoebe. He knew, bu
t wasn’t going to tell her. Not over the phone.
‘Brigitte? Can you do that?’
An involuntary sob; she swallowed it. ‘Yes.’
‘Is Harry inside the house?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Brigitte, listen to me. Harry’s in the house and you’re out on the porch where he can’t hear you, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s very important for you to stay calm, all right? Can you do that for me?’
‘Steve, what’s wrong?’
‘I need for you and Ella to get off the island —’
‘But Aidan said —’
‘— without alerting Harry that something is wrong.’
‘What the fuck is wrong?’ She stood up. ‘Are you at the station? Is Carla there? Can I speak to Carla?’
‘Calm down and listen to me.’ Policeman’s voice. ‘Somebody’s calling Jeremy to get the ferry going for you. He’ll be there soon.’
‘What about Phoebe?’
‘Officers are starting a search for her as we speak.’
‘Tell me what’s going on, Steve.’
He drew a breath, as if trying to decide how much to reveal.
‘Is it something to do with Maree Carver?’
Another inhalation. ‘I had forensics run a further check on evidence found on Harry’s boat. They found traces of Maree’s DNA.’
She heard Harry and Ella singing ‘Ring Around the Rosies’.
‘Brigitte? Brigitte, are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘A tissue, a tissue, we all fall down.’
‘When I hang up,’ Steve said, ‘I want you to go back inside and tell Harry nice as pie that Jeremy’s been woken up to take the ferry across so the police can come over and look for Phoebe. All right?’
She nodded.
‘Brigitte, are you listening?’
She was staring at Ella and Harry. Ashes, ashes … ‘Yes.’
‘Ask Harry if he could walk to Jeremy’s house to check that he hasn’t gone back to sleep. While Harry’s doing that, you and Ella get to the ferry as fast as you can.’
‘It’s a long walk to Jeremy’s.’
‘That’s the point. To buy some time.’
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