The thought of his wife made him anxious. He’d promised her he’d be home at a reasonable hour that night, but the day was quickly spiralling out of control.
‘Does she have any close friends or family that she might have visited?’
‘I’ve called everyone I can think of already. But she isn’t exactly a big socialiser, and her parents are at home with us.’
‘Her parents live with you?’
‘Yes, well, we live at their place actually.’ Emmett noticed Brian’s upper lip curled as he said this. ‘They built a townhouse out the back of their property. It was a gift to us on our wedding day, and Natale and I have lived there ever since.’
‘That’s very generous of them.’
‘Natale’s parents are Italian, and they’re pretty traditional. They wanted Natale with them and it wasn’t like we were really given a choice. I don’t think they’d have it any other way.’
Emmett smiled, mentally noting the bitter way Brian had said this. Despite his best intentions, he was beginning to feel drawn in to this case. It was unusual for a mother to take off without her two young children. He wondered if Natale’s parents shared her husband’s concern.
‘So, if she didn’t come home and didn’t visit friends, where do you think she went?’ Steven prompted.
Brian appeared to be considering this for a moment when his demeanour soured.
‘If I bloody well knew that then I wouldn’t be sitting here with you idiots, would I?’ A fist smacked onto the table. ‘Maybe instead of asking me stupid questions you should be out there trying to find my wife.’
In the tense silence that followed, Emmett’s eyes fell onto Brian’s clenched hand. A purple bruise was evident between his thumb and index finger and several red scratches could be seen near the wrist.
‘That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there.’
Brian quickly withdrew the fist under the table.
‘You need to find my wife.’
Emmett opened his notebook and flicked to a blank page. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Gibson’ – he scribbled down some notes – ‘we intend to.’
The boy was sitting in the corner, hugging his knees to his chest.
Ben watched from the window.
As the first person to have had contact with the child, he’d been asked to stay with him while the police called around for any relatives who would be prepared to take him in.
They’d hoped that over the course of the day the boy might open up to him but, so far, he’d been little help. Aside from a few sobs, the child – who Ben guessed couldn’t be older than five – remained silent, leaving the welfare worker to awkwardly prod for information.
‘My name is Ben, what’s yours?’
Nothing.
‘How long have you lived in that flat?’
Still nothing.
‘What’s your favourite game? Do you like football, or soccer?’
The only thing he’d been able to ascertain, with a fair degree of confidence, was that the boy was not comfortable with physical contact. Earlier, he’d attempted to give him a gentle pat on the back – the child’s automatic flinching reflex had warned him not to try that again.
‘Any luck?’ Ben directed his question at the doorway, where a policeman had appeared, holding two plastic cups.
‘No. Nothing at all. Have you been able to talk to him?’
Ben shook his head as he took the drinks, passing one over to the huddled figure. ‘It’s hot chocolate. Why don’t you try some? I bet it’s yummy.’
The boy didn’t respond; his head still dropped forward, his arms shivering slightly as he squeezed his knees into his body.
Ben’s mind turned to the days ahead. He shuddered at the thought of all the paperwork he’d have to fill out. He and Denise had worked with Lorna for nearly two years, and not once had they suspected she had a child. They’d been aware of the drugs, and the prostitution of course, but a son? How had they not known about this?
He quickly pushed aside the nagging memories of how dirty her house had been: the needles they’d carefully had to avoid, the soiled underwear, the used condoms. He shuddered again. Surely she had not been bringing up a child in that hellhole?
As he sipped the lukewarm chocolate drink, another worry presented itself. What if he and Denise were found to have been negligent in their duties? He didn’t have to do much soul-searching to know that neither of them had been as diligent as they could have been. Though they were assigned a good hour with each client, the truth was they often rushed through their appointments, and if a resident wasn’t home when they called by, they certainly didn’t wait around for them to show up.
Ben swallowed a lump in his throat as he remembered their last visit with Lorna: how quickly they’d hurried out of her squalid home. But could anyone blame them? He looked across again at the small boy, who remained squatted in the corner. If she’d had a child this whole time, she’d done a damn good job of hiding him from them.
He threw his cup in the bin.
He was tired of trying to engage with this boy and tired of worrying. He wanted to go home.
Besides, he thought, as he watched the child return to sobbing, what was the point? In all his professional years, he’d rarely seen anyone break the cycle of drugs and poverty. Society largely turned a blind eye to the destitute – the grubby ones – and there was little in the way of support to help them get back on their feet.
This poor boy had been given the roughest of rough starts, and with no obvious family and no strong role models, well, it would take a miracle for him to escape the almost certain fate of following in his mother’s footsteps.
‘We’re going to have to find him emergency accommodation.’ The police officer had returned. ‘You’re free to go if you like.’
Ben smiled gratefully, leaping to his feet.
‘See you later.’ He waved sheepishly at the boy, before hurriedly leaving the room.
CHAPTER THREE
Bryce Frederick was a man who didn’t walk; he swaggered. From the day they’d first met at the police academy Emmett knew they wouldn’t be friends, and those feelings had only worsened as he’d watched Bryce leapfrog all the other recruits, receiving promotion after promotion, while he and his colleagues had been left doing the traffic rounds, patrolling residential streets and dealing with drunken yobbos at the city’s nightclubs and bars. Now, as he watched the head of homicide stride towards him, Emmett had to consciously force his face into a pleasant expression.
‘Detective.’ Bryce’s voice was far louder than required. ‘Why don’t we have our chat downstairs at Chino’s? I’m in desperate need of a good coffee.’
Emmett rolled his shoulders back and followed the superintendent down the stairwell, out of the police headquarters and onto Spencer Street. Although his role required him to check in with his boss once a week, he couldn’t see these unpleasant meetings ever getting any easier.
Bryce waved at a barista as he sauntered into the small cafe and headed for a table up the back.
‘So,’ he said, before even sitting down. ‘Any new cases?’
Emmett leant in, aware the room was filled with potential snoops.
‘Just the one, it only came through this morning, but it’s quite interesting—’
‘A large soy latte with one sugar,’ Bryce cut him off.
Emmett turned around to find a pretty waitress standing behind him. He felt himself sneer. What kind of a man ordered a soy latte with sugar?
‘I’ll have a strong espresso, thanks.’
After giving the woman enough time to leave, he tried again.
‘We’re investigating a missing mother. Her name’s Natale Gibson. She left her two children, aged seven and four, at a holiday program on Friday and hasn’t been seen since. The Flemington station were working at it over the weekend, but now it’s been passed to us. It’s looking very suspicious.’
Bryce sniffed loudly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Is there a hu
sband?’
‘Yes.’ Emmett took a sip of the espresso that had been placed in front of him with remarkable speed. ‘Natale comes from a traditional Italian family, and lives with her husband and children in a townhouse out the back of her parents’ place.’
‘That sounds horrendous,’ Bryce said, unhelpfully. ‘Imagine living with your wife’s parents.’
‘I couldn’t do it,’ Emmett had to agree. ‘But, more importantly, it’s highly unlikely that a mother would take off without her two young children. And the husband seems a bit rough.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘We spoke to him only an hour ago. He says he left early to go to work, and didn’t know anything was wrong until Friday evening, when he got a call from the sports club asking why no one had picked the children up.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Bryce scoffed.
‘He had this terrible bruise on his left hand . . ’
‘Do you think there were troubles at home?’
‘Possibly. It does seem odd that the children were put into care during the holidays. Natale doesn’t work, and those programs can be so expensive. So what was she doing with the spare time?’
Bryce shrugged. ‘We’re hoping to send Max off to boarding school when he’s old enough. It’s good for children to be sent out of the home – teaches them to stand on their own two feet.’
‘Right.’ Emmett had no intention of debating the merits of boarding school. ‘Anyway, I’m visiting Natale’s parents this evening, and I’ve got Carter and Williams heading to the sports club where the holiday program was held. So we’ll know a lot more soon.’
The loud scraping of a chair nearby caught Emmett’s attention. A young man in a chequered shirt and skinny black jeans had pulled out a laptop and a set of expensive-looking headphones. He hummed as he started opening up programs and tapping away on his keyboard. He was probably an app designer or graphic artist, running his own business with complete freedom and mobility, Emmett decided, a little bitterly.
‘I’d normally suggest you pass this sort of case straight to homicide, but the truth is it wouldn’t hurt for your unit to get a bit of a win – or at least the appearance of a win – if you know what I mean.’ Bryce winked conspiratorially.
Emmett wondered if he should admit that he had no idea what his boss was talking about. Thankfully, he didn’t need to.
‘I’m sure you’re aware that the performance of the Missing Persons Unit is under review. And with the expected change of government later this year, it’s almost certain that police funding will be cut.’
‘My unit is facing the axe?’
‘Possibly; more likely a downsizing. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All I’m saying is that they’ll be looking for ways to cut costs, and the MPU would seem the obvious place to start, don’t you think?’ Bryce swirled the remainder of his coffee dramatically in his mug. ‘I mean, personally, I prefer the good old days, when missing persons cases were simply investigated by local police and only handed to homicide when there was clear evidence of foul play – it was a much more efficient system. But the way local stations are now, if your unit didn’t exist, it would be up to my detectives to pick up the slack. And the last thing I want is some of the state’s best coppers wasting time chasing shadows.’
Under the table, Emmett squeezed his fists. It took every ounce of strength not to react to the very deliberate sledging of his work, but he refused to give Bryce the satisfaction.
‘That’s why it would be a good look for your unit to solve one of these bigger cases – if indeed this turns out the way it’s sounding. I’m happy to lend you a couple of my detectives if you need them. But I think you should be more certain of homicide before we get involved.’
Emmett frowned. He wanted to ask more about the funding cuts and how their jobs would be impacted, but his boss was already standing up.
‘Keep me updated,’ Bryce said as he strode off.
Staring dismally at the dregs left in his cup, Emmett stayed seated. He hadn’t even had a chance to mention the latest on Rosemary Norman, or the meeting with her brother Daniel. It probably doesn’t matter. That case is going nowhere.
But still, an uncomfortable worry was nagging at him. Why did these meetings always leave him feeling so small? Why, after all these years, did he still allow Bryce to wield such power over him?
The bathroom light was flickering, casting unflattering shadows across her face. Abbie reapplied her bronzer and an extra coating of mascara, before heading back out to her desk. The DGP Finance workspace was largely open plan, with just a few glass offices reserved for the truly important. Marcus Weighton was one of those important people.
She sighed as she passed his large corner office. He had still not emerged from the afternoon board meeting.
Sitting back down in front of her computer, she willed herself to focus. Finance internships were near impossible to get, and she couldn’t become complacent. It was important that she was seen as a serious candidate if a permanent position should arise.
In fact, she reminded herself, absent-mindedly twirling a piece of hair that hung over her left shoulder, it wasn’t that long ago that simply getting through the door here had seemed a miracle. After applying for more than a dozen different placements without so much as a response, she’d pretty much given up hope. So when the letter of offer had arrived, she’d promised herself that she’d make the most of it. The last thing she’d intended to do was develop a crush on one of the senior executives.
Opening a spreadsheet, Abbie quickly became immersed in the numbers. Her love of data analysis had come as a complete shock to everyone, not least herself. At school she’d always struggled with maths, and her teachers had all but given up on her. She’d always expected to go into event management, or wedding planning, or something glamorous like that. But then, of course, everything had changed.
The soft buzzing of her phone alerted her to a new text message.
Spencer’s not well. I’m taking him to the hospital. I’ll let you know more once we’ve seen the doctor.
Abbie read, and re-read, the message with a sinking feeling. She felt guilty. She always did. How had she let things turn out this way? Why couldn’t she have been just that little bit wiser, that little bit less naïve?
Her left thumb hovered over the phone as she considered her reply. What would she say? There was nothing to say, that was the problem. Ultimately, it was best if she stayed out of the picture. She was better off without him, and he was definitely better off without her.
The sound of familiar footsteps from behind made her spin around.
‘Well, hello, Ms Knowles.’
Marcus was standing so close that she could smell his cologne, the deep, woody scent that made her want to forget all her promises of professionalism and simply throw herself into his arms. His eyes sparkled and his lips were curled in a gently teasing smirk.
‘Are you keeping busy?’
Marcus looked pointedly from Abbie’s mobile to her computer screen, which had just gone black after several minutes of inactivity.
Abbie blushed. She’d been working hard all day, but of course he would turn up at the one moment she was distracted.
‘Actually, I was—’
‘I wanted to discuss some assistance I might need.’ Marcus cut her off. ‘I’m involved in a fairly in-depth project with an overseas client, so I’ll need someone to stay back one night this week to help out. I was hoping you’d be available. If you’re not too busy, that is . . ’ He grinned, allowing her no time to respond as he turned on his heel and marched away.
Abbie felt her cheeks flush again. Holding her breath, she watched him disappear into the sanctuary of his corner office. He was so good-looking, and so far out of her league. But still, she could dream.
Her heart was racing as she returned to her spreadsheet, and she was sure the entire office could see her childish crush.
Focus.
She tried checking
her calculations in the final column, but the numbers washed in a haze in front of her, a blurry taunt.
What if he likes me? I think he might like me.
Pushing her chair away from her desk, Abbie sighed. She needed a coffee, and maybe a brisk walk outside.
There was no use in pretending any more – she tucked her purse under her arm and headed for the elevator – she was falling for Marcus, and that meant trouble. Even she could see that.
Walking up the concrete path towards the modest weatherboard house, the officer squeezed the boy’s hand.
‘This will be your new home,’ he said, his tone artificially upbeat. ‘There’s a lovely woman called Maria who’s going to look after you, and there are other boys and girls here for you to play with too.’
The boy ignored him, staring resolutely forward at the brown door which was looming large. He’d heard the adults talking, saying he couldn’t stay in emergency accommodation any longer, but he still didn’t understand what it all meant – or why he was being taken to this strange place.
‘Would you like to ring the bell?’ the policeman asked, before pushing the buzzer himself.
The door squeaked as it opened, revealing a dumpy woman with messy grey curls. She was wearing a red and white apron over her clothes. ‘Hello there, I’m Maria.’ She bent down so that she was at eye level with the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy stared at Maria’s shoes. They were big and clumpy and not at all like the shoes his mum used to wear. You could always see his mum’s bright pink toenails through her shoes. This woman didn’t show her toenails at all. He didn’t like that.
‘Thanks for taking him in at such short notice.’ The officer shook Maria’s hand.
They walked through the hallway, and the boy could hear the sound of other children talking and whispering.
‘Why don’t we come into the kitchen and sit down?’
Sticks and Stones Page 3