Sticks and Stones

by Katherine Firkin

  ‘Sorry, what was that last bit?’

  ‘I said she would never have missed Tom’s birthday. It was the one day that was important to her. Why would she leave right before it? She’s not answering her phone, she’s not at home and she’s stopped turning up at work. Something is wrong.’

  Emmett nodded, discreetly licking his dry lips. He wanted to end this tedious interview.

  ‘My team and I will be doing everything we can to find her, Mr Norman. I’ll need a list of all the contacts you have for her, including that temping agency you mentioned. We’ll also need her bank and phone details, and any medical history you think might be relevant.’

  Daniel seemed happy with this course of action, and immediately began scribbling down a long list of names and numbers. Emmett noticed his right hand shook as he wrote.

  ‘You’re obviously very close with your sister.’

  Daniel’s mouth tightened. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

  After promising he’d be in touch within twenty-four hours, Emmett watched from his office window as the sad little man left the building. Even from that distance, he noticed the way Daniel limped slightly, unable to sustain his full body weight on his right leg.

  The office was buzzing with the usual Monday-morning gossip and normally Marcus would be right among it, bragging about whatever trashy bimbo he’d picked up that weekend. But today he couldn’t be bothered. Instead he stayed at his desk, staring out over the greenery below, which formed the Treasury Gardens. His office was in a grand Victorian building, on what was known as the ‘Paris end’ of Collins Street – the more salubrious part of Melbourne, where a week’s wage could be frittered away on a fashionable pair of chinos, or an indulgent night at one of the many boutique bars.

  Marcus smirked as he thought about one particular bar, called the Long Room, where he and his mates had spent quite a rowdy bucks’ night with a stripper known as Angel.

  But the smirk soon left his face as the hovering shadow of fear that had been following him around all weekend returned. Was he in trouble? Would he finally be caught? He shook his head. It did no good to worry. He would find a way to make the problem disappear.

  He shuffled a few papers that lay on his desk, left over from Friday’s briefing, and straightened his stationery yet again. He noticed, with intense annoyance, that a light film of dust had settled over his nameplate. He picked it up and wiped his thumb across the engraving so that ‘MARCUS WEIGHTON, Senior Finance Executive’ could be better read.

  ‘Useless bloody cleaners,’ he muttered.

  He was agitated – as though he was being chased, haunted even. It was a feeling he hadn’t been able to shake since the unfortunate events of Saturday night. Even watching his beloved Saints win the footy hadn’t been able to calm him like it usually did.

  The knock at the door gave him a jolt.

  Abbie – a dumb blonde intern – was standing there with his weekly forecast notes and a plate of biscuits. She was wearing that stupid, cutesy expression she seemed to reserve just for him.

  ‘I thought you might need a snack,’ she giggled, as she leant forward and placed the notes and biscuits deliberately in front of him.

  Her black bra was visible through her tight shirt, and he had a clear view of her breasts as she bent down to place the items on his desk. She’d been dancing around him in skimpier and skimpier outfits for a while now; she was obviously gagging for it. Marcus made a mental note to get her alone sometime later that week, but he couldn’t be bothered with her now.

  ‘Fine.’ He waved her away without so much as a smile.

  He didn’t need useless distractions today, and Abbie was about as useless as they came.

  He had a serious mess to clean up. And he needed to do it quickly.

  It was a small flat on the fifth floor of the complex, and as they climbed the stairwell, the stench was palpable. Denise shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  ‘Maybe we should ring the police?’ she suggested. ‘I want to get out of here.’

  ‘All we have to do is knock. It’s not like we’re going to bust the door down if no one answers,’ her colleague Ben muttered, rapping firmly.

  From a floor above, a woman with a blue beanie peered out of a sliding window, quickly disappearing when she met the gaze of the two welfare workers.

  Ben tried again, surprised to see the faded wooden door nudge open.

  ‘Oh.’ He staggered backwards, holding one hand over his mouth. ‘It smells like rotting meat, but worse . . ’

  Denise didn’t need to hear any more, her feet already tripping their way back down the flight of stairs.

  Ben was about to follow when he heard a noise. What was that strange sound? He gave the wooden panels a push.

  Standing on the edge of the doorway, he peered through the dark.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out, not expecting a reply. ‘Lorna?’

  He tried the light switch next to the doorway. Nothing.

  The noise he’d heard earlier was growing louder, a strained wheezing sound coming from his left.

  Ignoring every instinct to leave, Ben carefully stepped through the darkness to where the distressing sound was coming from. In the hallway he could make out a table, and a pile of something in the corner – clothes, maybe? On the left of the passageway was another door. His hand trembled as he turned the knob.

  The smell hit him with such force that he found himself doubling over. He pulled his sweater up and over his mouth, but it did little to filter the sickening sweetness that hung in the air.

  ‘Lorna?’

  It didn’t take long to see her, slumped pitifully by the window.

  He sighed. It was horrifying, but he hadn’t expected anything different. Like most of the clients they checked on, Lorna lived on her own, had a drug habit and was unemployed. He’d always known one day they’d find her lying in a heap: a tragic end to a tragic life.

  He stepped forward. At least she’d had the dignity of over dosing at home, not in some back laneway, as they’d found Bruce the other day.

  But the intensity of the smell made Ben worry she’d been there for a while. In his mind he tried replaying all their recent appointments. Had he and Denise remembered to check in on her last fortnight?

  ‘Denise,’ he yelled over his shoulder, aware she was unlikely to hear him. ‘Denise, you need to run and phone the . . ’

  But then he stopped. Next to the body, something was moving.

  He strained his eyes, using the fragmented pieces of light that flickered in from between the slats of the window blinds to make out the strange, gently heaving silhouette. He could see golden hairs. The light was dancing on something that was definitely fuzzy and golden. Was it a dog? Ben squinted. As far as he knew Lorna didn’t have a pet – the residents here weren’t allowed to keep animals.

  He stepped closer. Then he froze. It couldn’t be.

  With a sharp intake of air, Ben realised what he was looking at; there, huddled over the body, and sobbing intently, was a small child.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cindy shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she tried to maintain an interest in the data being presented. Despite her determination to focus, she couldn’t help letting her mind wander. She’d only been about ten minutes late that morning, and neither her boss nor any of her new colleagues had seemed to notice, but she’d felt flustered. She still did.

  The trip to her new workplace had been hell. Despite leaving Nicholas’s school with plenty of time to spare, she’d managed to catch every red light, hit every patch of roadwork – heck, she’d even been so sweaty and worked up that at one point her foot had slipped off the clutch, causing her car to stall. She hadn’t stalled her car since she was a university student, rambling her way through unknown Melbourne streets, learning the hard way about negotiating trams and executing those dreaded hook turns. Cindy scrunched her face, recalling the angry honks as she’d embarrassingly had to restart the ignition. She hated looking foolis
h.

  The worst part of the journey, though, she remembered now, as she scribbled a few meaningless words on her notepad in an attempt to look engaged by the presentation before her, was when she’d realised that Nicholas had left his lunchbox behind.

  After finally getting through the worst of it, she’d taken a moment to touch up her make-up in the rear-view mirror, when she’d noticed the fire-engine red container sitting next to his booster seat. This had brought up a wave of irrationality. Am I a bad mother if I pretend I didn’t see it? Will I lose my job if I’m a bit late? And worst of all: why is it always me and not Emmett who’s compromised by our decision to have a child?

  As Cindy replayed the resentful way she’d done a screeching U-turn and headed back to the school, she told herself to calm down. I’m being silly. With a slow, deep breath, she forced herself to return her focus to the boring man at the front of the room.

  ‘The Docklands area is one of Australia’s largest urban renewal projects,’ the speaker – a stocky chap in his early fifties – was monotonously reading off the slide in front of them. ‘There are several different precincts, for which we’ve sold development rights to various private companies.’

  Cindy’s eyes glazed over. The Docklands was a relatively new development on Melbourne’s ports, and one which had not yet won over the hearts of locals. Until today she’d never visited the suburb, and this tedious presentation wasn’t making her feel like she’d missed much.

  Despite promising to make the most of the city’s waterways, the precinct was known to be soulless and poorly planned. The area had also been haunted by the laughably problematic development of a giant ferris wheel, which was meant to be similar to the famous London Eye. But after opening two years behind schedule, it had to be shut down almost immediately, due to structural defects. It then sat desolate for five years, before finally reopening. None of this, Cindy noted, was being discussed by the man at the front of the room.

  From her handbag at her feet came a bright glow. She discreetly reached down, fumbling with her mobile to check the text message.

  How’s the new job going? I’ve been thinking about you all morning. Xx

  Cindy felt a rush of affection for her husband, followed quickly by a pang of guilt. It wasn’t his fault he had to work such long hours. Emmett had been a policeman from the day they’d met, so it was hardly fair to blame him for the tough lifestyle that the job continued to provide – late nights, unpredictable hours and being on call were all part of it. Cindy couldn’t even begin to remember how many family functions, trips to the zoo, nights out had been cut short by the ringing of Emmett’s mobile, and the same apologetic look he’d give as he’d explain why he needed to disappear.

  Bringing her handbag to her lap, Cindy pondered how to write back without being noticed. A tap on her shoulder made her jump.

  ‘You’re not planning on staying here all day?’ Vania, Cindy’s new boss, was standing in front of her.

  Embarrassed, she got up. The presentation was over. She’d zoned out again.

  As she trotted back to her desk, Cindy considered the possibility of getting a decent glass of wine with lunch. It was probably not the done thing to drink during the workday any more, but who would know?

  After clicking through to her empty inbox, she searched online for nearby licensed cafes. Mercifully there were several, and she happily scrolled through their drinks lists, before selecting a place that served her favourite Hunter Valley white.

  Perfect.

  With the crisp taste of the white wine already dancing on her tongue, Cindy grabbed her handbag and headed for the door.

  She was surviving her first day back at work. Surely that was something to celebrate.

  Emmett yawned, checking his watch and listening to his stomach grumbling impatiently as he did so. He hadn’t stopped all morning, and that discipline was paying off. On the notepad in front of him, he was pleased to see that most of the long list of phone numbers he’d been working through now had a hearty line drawn across them. Only three more to go.

  He picked up the handset of his desk phone, ready to dial the next number.

  ‘Detective? Are you there?’

  Emmett felt himself shrink as he plonked the phone back down.

  ‘Glad I caught you.’ First Constable Steven Carter, his overly enthusiastic junior, marched through the doorway without so much as the pretence of knocking. ‘I know you have your hands full at the moment, but the Flemington station rang. They’re passing us a case and it sounds pretty serious.’

  Emmett forced himself not to roll his eyes. He didn’t want to dampen Steven’s enthusiasm, but he highly doubted it would be ‘serious’.

  ‘It’s a missing mother of two. She didn’t pick her kids up from their holiday program on Friday and she hasn’t been heard from since. The local members were looking into it over the weekend, but they haven’t got anywhere. They say the husband’s going hysterical. They want us to handle it.’

  Emmett sighed.

  ‘Okay, well, firstly, check with uniform that they’ve tried all the usual avenues – local hospitals, women’s refuges, shopping centres, the pokies . . ’

  He stopped himself. There it was again, that cynicism that seemed to creep into everything he did these days. He didn’t like the jaded view he’d developed, but the truth remained: despite the huge number of missing Australians, most did not disappear against their own will.

  ‘Great.’ Steven appeared to be writing the directions down verbatim.

  ‘And once you’ve done that’ – Emmett swivelled his chair away from his younger colleague to signal that their chat was coming to an end – ‘make sure you set up an interview with the husband. If there is anything concerning about her disappearance, he’ll be our first port of call.’

  ‘Umm.’ Steven’s voice was nervous.

  Emmett’s stomach sank. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve kind of already spoken to the husband and asked him to come in.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘He’s waiting at reception now.’

  ‘What?’ Emmett turned back to find Steven’s face flushed pink. ‘Well, is there anyone else who can do the interview with you? I’m only just starting my preliminary notes on the Norman investigation, and I don’t know anything about this new case.’

  Steven shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Give me five minutes.’ Emmett grabbed his phone again, angrily punching in the next number on his list. He was going to knock off this stupid task first. The man would just have to wait.

  By the time he emerged from his office the reception area was empty.

  ‘They’ve already gone through.’ Annette pointed down the hall. ‘But they’re waiting for you.’

  Emmett forced a smile, hoping she hadn’t noticed the growl of his stomach as he passed.

  Inside the nearest interview room, he found his younger colleague self-consciously flicking through sheets of paper, unsuccessfully trying to make small talk with the brawny man seated opposite.

  ‘This is Brian Gibson.’

  Emmett nodded to the man, who was hugging his arms across his chest, his legs splayed unattractively either side of the chair.

  ‘His wife Natale didn’t come home on Friday, and he’s quite worried.’

  Emmett extended a hand and did a quick mental assessment. Brian seemed like a tradesman of some sort: tall, physically strong, but carrying some unnecessary padding around his gut and sporting well-defined lines around his eyes.

  ‘Tell us what’s happened.’ He took a seat next to Steven, across a cheap brown table covered in mug stains.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened, that’s why I’ve come to you.’ Brian’s voice was curt and Emmett watched with interest as the man fidgeted, as though uncomfortable in his own skin.

  Neither detective said anything.

  ‘She didn’t pick the kids up from their holiday program, and she never came home,’ Brian eventually offered. ‘I’ve been telling th
e cops this all weekend and they haven’t done a thing. Something bad has happened. Why else would she just vanish?’

  Emmett forced himself to stay quiet. He could think of many reasons: a secret lover, mental health problems, financial stress, just being sick of your plain old boring existence . .

  ‘Was your wife showing any unusual behaviours before she disappeared?’ Steven asked.

  ‘No.’ Brian scowled. ‘Natale is just a happy, quiet mum. She loves our two kids. She wouldn’t leave like this.’

  ‘What sort of work does she do?’

  ‘Work?’ Brian looked confused.

  ‘I assumed she was working, given the children were being sent to child care during the school holidays?’

  ‘No. She’s a stay-at-home mum. And it wasn’t really child care, it was a holiday program run by the local sports club. Dario plays footy there anyway and he wanted to go with his friends, so Natale thought she may as well send both children and have some time to herself.’

  Steven nodded, writing this down.

  ‘Dario? That’s your son?’

  ‘Yes. But the program’s not just about footy, they do all sorts of activities in the clubrooms, like arts and crafts and stuff, so Natale thought both kids would like it. I didn’t really think they should go. I thought it was a waste of money.’

  ‘I see,’ Steven murmured. ‘And how was your wife using the free time?’

  Brian shrugged. ‘I have no idea. To be honest, I don’t really know why she needed time to herself. Natale likes looking after the kids. And the program costs a fortune. I told her not to send them.’

  Emmett looked at the bulky frame of the man sitting opposite them. He recognised the tension in his voice. He and Cindy had had many similar arguments. But you love being at home with Nicholas. He’d said that once and learnt quickly not to do it again. That had been a bad patch in their relationship, only a few months after Nicholas was born. Emmett bit his lower lip, as the memory of that time resurfaced. That was when Cindy was crying all the time. Postnatal depression, the doctor had called it. Just bloody shit. That’s what it had been.