by Sibel Hodge
He gave me a tight smile and looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting shortly, so if we could get to it . . . ?’
‘It’s about the altercation between Russell and Max at the wedding reception.’
‘I’ve already told you about that.’
‘Yes, I know. You said you caught the tail end of it. You saw Alissa step in between Russell and Max when it looked as if it was getting heated, and by the time you got to the bottom of the garden, Russell had left.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And then you went into the woods to check that Russell had really gone.’
He crossed one leg over the other and leaned an elbow casually on the arm of his chair. ‘Yes.’
‘What happened when you went into the woods?’
‘Just what I told you previously. I walked in and looked around for him in the immediate area. I couldn’t see him, so I went back to The Orchard.’
‘We found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s near a large oak tree with Russell’s prints on it.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised. He was wrecked.’
‘And your fingerprints were on it, too. Why was that?’
He shrugged. ‘I picked it up.’
‘Why?’
He tilted his head. ‘I’m not sure, really. I saw it there and just picked it up to see how much was gone. He’d drunk almost the whole bottle while he’d been watching the house. Bloody psycho.’
‘But you didn’t mention that before.’
‘I just forgot about it until you asked. It’s not important, is it?’
‘Did you see Buttons, Alissa’s cat, near the tree and bottle?’
‘No.’
So Russell hadn’t killed the cat. Unless he’d come back again another day, but why? I could understand it if the cat had been Max’s, but it was Alissa’s cat, so surely if Russell was in love with her, would he really have harmed it? And was the death of the cat even relevant to the rest of the case, or had it died accidentally?
‘What was Russell wearing that day?’
He tapped a fingertip on his chin, thinking. ‘Blue jeans and a white T-shirt with some kind of logo on it.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, shoes, obviously.’ He gave me a mocking smile. ‘I don’t know what kind they were, though.’
‘How did you feel about Alissa?’
His nostrils flared slightly. ‘What do you mean?’
He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what I meant. ‘Did you like her? Were you happy she was marrying your best friend?’
‘They were very happy together, and if you’re insinuating that Alissa was involved in this, then you’re completely mistaken. I won’t be answering any further inappropriate questions without my lawyer present. And I’m seriously thinking about putting in a complaint about your inappropriate questioning! Now, I’m extremely busy and I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ He turned to his desk and started shuffling papers.
But I noticed he hadn’t answered my question.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 18
Ronnie and I were still executing the search warrant for Stiles’ house while Wilmott was basking in the glory of his arrest. It was a rented two-bedroomed terraced cottage at the edge of Waverly – neat and tidy from the outside, with a postage-stamp-sized front garden. A far cry from The Orchard, and Alissa had definitely landed on her feet in choosing Max over Russell. Still, there was no accounting for love. Or was there? I still had doubts about her story.
Ronnie was in the tiny lounge, looking under sofa cushions. I glanced around, getting a feel for the place, for the person who lived there. There was a log burner along one wall. Under the window was a battered wooden TV cabinet. The stairs were set in one back corner of the room. In the other corner was a doorway that led to a kitchen overlooking the larger rear garden.
I climbed the stairs. The first door I came to was a spare room turned into a gym. The only things in it were a weight bench with a metal barbell resting on the rack, two metal dumb-bells, and a stack of free weights. On the wall opposite the bench was a huge, blown-up picture of Alissa. I stepped closer and studied the black-and-white image. It had been taken in a field full of wheat, but the background had been softened. She wore a pale-coloured, short sundress that accentuated the curve of her hips, the outline of her breasts, her long, toned legs. Her head was tilted slightly and she held a bunch of flowers in one hand, hanging loosely by her side. The smile on her face was inviting, sensual. Her big, brown eyes held a hint of sex. The word gorgeous didn’t do her justice. She was more than that. Way more. I pictured Russell working out in the room and watching her, unable to let her go. I felt the same about Denise. I couldn’t let her go, either. Part of me actually felt sorry for Russell. Love can be the most amazing feeling in the world – it can make you ecstatic, free, peaceful, content, make you want to do the impossible. But on the flip side, it can also cause pain, or make you hopeless, angry, bitter, fixated, jealous, like Russell seemed to be. He was stuck in limbo, unable to move on with his life without her. Unable to accept she was no longer there for him. And it struck me that I wasn’t really that much different from him in that respect.
I looked under the bench and between the weights and felt for loose wooden floorboards in the bare room, but found nothing hidden.
I searched his bathroom, finding a few bottles of toiletries, a razor, some cleaning products, and a sponge. There was no cabinet in there to look through. The cistern was empty. A large plastic bin stood under the sink for dirty laundry. I poked around, found a damp towel, a flannel, two pairs of faded blue jeans, a ripped pair of camouflage combats, socks, and boxers. Alissa had said the intruder was wearing all black, but we only had her word to go on that this was the truth. I put the washing back and went into his bedroom.
There was a single pine wardrobe in one corner, a pine double bed, two matching bedside drawers, one of which had another photo of Alissa on it, and not much else. I searched the bed first, under the mattress and inside pillow cases, before turning my attention to the drawers. Boxers, socks, an old personal CD player, a packet of condoms past their sell-by date, a biro, a tube of antiseptic cream, some Olbas Oil. There was nothing taped underneath them or behind them.
The cupboard held clothing, footwear, a holdall bag, and a couple of beanie hats. I slid clothes along the rack, searching for something black, but there was nothing. He seemed to prefer grey or blue or camo. I checked pockets and inside boots, shoes, and trainers, but SOCO hadn’t recovered any footprints from the scene – maybe due to the offender wearing shoe covers. Or maybe there was another reason. I didn’t find a black, puffy jacket anywhere, nor a balaclava or gloves.
I went back downstairs and found Ronnie poking about in the back of a cupboard under the sink in the kitchen. ‘Anything?’ I asked.
‘Nothing incriminating.’
I opened the back door and looked out into the garden. There were six-foot hawthorn hedges that separated his property from the neighbouring ones. At the far end, it backed on to the same woods as The Orchard did further up the village. The only thing between Russell’s property and those woods was a four-foot wooden fence. It would’ve been easy for him to leave home that night, make his way to The Orchard through the cover of the trees without being spotted, and come back the same way under the blanket of darkness. But it was still bothering me why he’d done it when he knew Alissa would be in the house, unless Alissa and Stiles were really in on it together and he knew she wouldn’t intervene. Had she let Russell into the house that night?
In the corner of the garden was an old shed, the timber rotting in some places. I walked down the flagstone path and tried the door. Unlocked.
It was full, but reasonably tidy. There was a rack along one wall with various fishing equipment hanging on it – nets, rods, flies. An old petrol strimmer stood in the corner, next to a couple of spades and forks and a branch lopper. There were several tins of wood stain, weed killer, a large plastic
garden sprayer, and a big bag of fertiliser and mulch.
I heaved the bag of fertiliser away from the wall, and that’s when I spotted it.
A plastic bag, wrapped around something. I opened the bag and found a knife. It was about five inches long, with a black handle and a very sharp, pointed blade.
And it was encrusted with what looked like dried blood.
THE OTHER ONE
Chapter 19
The farm was sold when Dad went to prison, and the money was put in trust for me for when I turned sixteen. I was placed with a foster family in a house that was as far away from my old one in terms of geography as it was in experience. I went from the middle of the country to the big city. My foster parents were David and Caroline, and they had a daughter who was two years older than me and a son who was four years older. A nice, normal, regular family. It took me a while to find out what normal meant in the real world. The unisolated world, where families ate dinner together without it getting thrown around the room or forced down their throat. Where parents spoke civilly to each other and had real conversations that didn’t involve one of them shouting and the other being made to listen with their jaw clutched tight in the other’s hand. Without being slapped or punched. Where you didn’t have to walk on eggshells, afraid to say the wrong thing. Where kids had friends who did happy, fun things together, and their only job was to enjoy a protected childhood, instead of torturing and murdering poor, defenceless, sentient animals and laughing about their suffering. Where touches and kissed cheeks and comforting cuddles replaced fists and lashing-out feet.
Their house had all mod cons. A TV in the lounge and one in each of the kid’s rooms so they could watch what they wanted. We’d never had one at home. The TV was God’s way of talking the devil into us! We had the Internet, mobile phones, video games, DVD players. That house had the lot.
I still don’t think I know for certain what normal is. But I had a lot to learn in those days, and that thing with George was my starting point. Instinctively, I’d known even at that early age that to get by, to pass as normal, I had to be someone else. Because, of course, the real me would never be normal. There was something wrong deep inside. I couldn’t feel anything for people. The only things I had strong emotions for were animals. Don’t get me wrong, my foster family were lovely. It’s just that maybe I was more like my dad than I realised. And if I couldn’t get rid of that Dad-ness in me, then I had to blot it out.
There’s a lot to concentrate on when trying to be normal if you’ve had a fucked-up childhood. A lot to remember. It’s a constant battle. In that house was where my real education started.
I studied the daughter all the time. How she walked, her mannerisms, her accent, tone of voice, what she wore, how she laughed, how she swam, how she interacted with her friends, what make-up she wore, how she did her hair. I followed her around and took notes in my head. Today, she threw her head back when she laughed at a joke her dad said, but why was that different to yesterday when she didn’t laugh at one her brother told and glared at him instead?
It was exhausting! The constant questioning in my head, the subtle changes in her from one day to the next, trying to figure out why, what it meant, was it important?
In my bedroom at night, I’d run through the days spent with her as she introduced me to her friends, her boyfriend, her life, scribbling manic notes, trying to keep up. I’d practise her voice in front of the mirror, her laugh, her hair, her expressions, until I knew I had it just right. But the practice needed an audience, so I’d steal some of her clothes and head into the city and force myself to talk to people I didn’t know. To be her.
I’d sit in a coffee shop and smile at everyone, which was a no-no. People thought you were weird if you smiled at anyone. I scribbled that down as a reference and observed the place, sipping a black coffee. It seemed like it was OK to smile at the barista or people in line, but a permanent smile on your face as you glanced around the room was wrong. Check!
I’d wander around aimlessly, looking for people to talk to, so I could try out being her. Gradually, it began to come easily. Instead of my eyes looking out at the world, I really felt that they were hers.
Of course, I wasn’t stupid enough to let on as to what I was doing. At home, I had to be me, just a changed version of me from when they’d first taken me in. Someone who actually talked to people now. Who laughed. Who’d filled out from her skinny body to a young woman with curves and boobs and arse. Who had long, glossy hair. Who actually looked pretty. Turned heads, even. The daughter loved me. She’d always wanted a younger sister and treated me as if I was a doll, or a little pet project. She taught me how to style my hair, which was previously just a tangled mess. How to apply make-up, which music was cool and which was crap. No matter how nice she was to me, I couldn’t love her back, though. There was something missing in my heart. Something cold and dark. I think the son loved me, too. I’d see the way he looked at me, like he wanted to touch me, kiss me, fuck me. And I saw it was getting harder and harder for him to contain himself as time went on, but I managed to keep him at a distance. I had more important things to do.
When I’d perfected my emulation of the daughter, I studied TV programmes. Actresses in the teen series she watched or from films. I studied everyone. Everyone had something to teach me; they just didn’t know it.
I became someone who worked hard at school, who had her own friends, went to the mall, the cinema, who learned to surf, who worked part-time at the local animal shelter, but it was all an act. I spent hours perfecting my artwork. Gone was the dark art. In its place was something real. Something you could feel through the canvas or pages lined with charcoal and watercolours. Mostly, I worked on animal images, because I could see into their souls and that shone through. We shared an understanding. I won competitions and awards. But the main thing was, I got through it. I got through it all with a fake smile plastered on my face and the personality and traits of hundreds of people itching beneath my skin.
On my sixteenth birthday, I found out Dad had hanged himself in prison. Good fucking riddance. What had my parents ever taught me? How to kill something with my bare hands? How to die a million times? How to go mad? How to hate and be hated? How to have something you love snatched away from you? How to be weak and pathetic?
I’m free now, and I need a new challenge, I thought, as I read through the balance of my trust fund. I wanted to go from the girl who had nothing to the girl who had it all. And this time I’d be the one in control. So I looked at the map of Australia and picked out a place.
Yeah. Sydney.
You see, the thing I’d really learned in my life above everything was that I could be anyone I wanted. And now it was time to reinvent myself.
PART TWO
REVENGE
THE OTHER ONE
Chapter 20
I have a real name, of course – the name on my birth certificate. The name they gave me. But I was Anita in Sydney, Jane in Byron Bay, and Alice in Brisbane, plus many others over the years. I was a chameleon, adapting to her surroundings, changing my personality at the drop of a hat. In the hostels I stayed in as I travelled up the east coast of Australia, there were so many people to meet. To watch. To copy. To steal their very selves from without them even realising. Travellers backpacking around the country, oblivious to the truth of the world. It was easy to get lost amongst them. To blend in or stand out, depending on my mood. Sunglasses, a big floppy hat, an unflattering tent dress – they hide you away. Make-up, hair, short skirts, and vest tops make you stand out. Now you see me, now you don’t! A sleight of hand. My fabulous party trick.
I was getting bored, though. Men were easy. I don’t want to sound big-headed, but they noticed me whenever I was in my ‘standing out’, shining-my-light mood. Noticed me a lot. I had anyone I wanted, but it didn’t mean anything. I approached them the same way I approached all my projects. They were a learning curve. It was all a lesson, and they were just homework.
I lik
ed my own company too much – I was used to it by now. Liked locking myself away in my head. Being ‘normal’ was fucking hard work sometimes, and after years of travelling, I wanted to settle in one place for a while and concentrate on my art while I worked out the next plan for my life.
Noosa was the town I’d felt the most connection to when I was doing my east-coast jaunt, so I headed back there, rented a little apartment, and set up a stall selling my artwork. One of the arty boutiques there also asked if I could transfer some of my animal pictures on to postcards that they’d sell for me. Yes, of course, I can do anything! I’d spent half of my trust fund travelling over the years, so the art paid my bills while I saved up some more cash to go . . . well, I didn’t know where yet. Somewhere. My feet were constantly itching to head somewhere. Experience something new. Or maybe I was just trying to outrun my own thoughts and the voices that sometimes shouted annoyingly inside my brain. I’d been in Noosa nine months, trying out my new life, and after a while it grew pretty dull and repetitive. How did people get through years and years of it?
I’d survived everything for . . . this?
But things always change when you least expect it, and, of course, that’s what happened on that sunny day at the end of August.
I had a stack of new postcards I’d just produced for the boutique and I was dropping them off before setting up my stall.
‘Hi, Sam!’ the owner said as I breezed through the door.
‘Hi!’ I smiled and placed a cardboard box on the counter. ‘New supplies for you.’
‘Great, thanks. Your stuff always sells fast.’ She picked up a couple of postcards from the top and looked through them.