Sticks and Stones

by Katherine Firkin

  In the middle of the room was a circular wooden table, and on it was a plate of biscuits and a few colourful plastic cups. The boy reluctantly sat at the table with the grown-ups. His tummy growled as he stared at the biscuits.

  From a nearby room the sound of other children laughing got louder. The boy bristled. He didn’t like other people in his house. He’d hated it when his mum had had her male visitors around. They were always noisy and scary, and she would cry when they left. His favourite times were when it was just the two of them, sitting cuddled on the floor, his mum singing songs or telling him stories about all the adventures they would have when she got enough money.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ Maria asked, pushing the plate of biscuits closer to the boy.

  The boy took the plate and stared at it. Some of the biscuits were white, and some were dark brown. They were all cut into circles, but some were bigger than others. It made it difficult to choose.

  As his hand hovered over the plate, he was aware of both Maria and the policeman watching him. He didn’t like that. He picked up one of the brown biscuits but then put it back down. Maybe a white one would be better? The boy felt confused, and then frustrated, and then angry. This wasn’t his home. He wanted his mum.

  Picking up the plate, he stared squarely at Maria. Her skin was all wrinkled, and the red glasses she wore made her eyes look small. He threw the plate as hard as he could at her, hoping it would smack her right in the face. Even though he missed, it was good to see the biscuits scatter all over the table and the floor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They could hear the sound of children screaming before they’d even stepped out of the car, and Steven noticed his partner hesitate, before heading across an oval towards a large brick building, which was, no doubt, the football clubrooms.

  He’d been paired with Detective Leading Senior Constable Morton Williams for the afternoon’s expedition and, although his older colleague had more than a couple of extra decades on him, he was far from a role model.

  ‘You really don’t like children, do you?’ Steven said, unable to hide the delight in his voice.

  A scowl spread across his partner’s face, but he got no response.

  ‘What is it?’ he goaded. ‘Do they make you feel ancient? Irrelevant? Alone?’

  ‘Do you want my help or not?’ Morton snapped, still slightly breathless from rushing across the field.

  Steven sniggered. One thing you were taught in the police force was to always respect the rank of those above you, but there was little to respect in Morton. Not only was the grumpy detective physically out of shape – his gut hanging unattractively over his trousers – but he was also renowned for being exceedingly lazy. In fact, rumour had it he’d been transferred to the Missing Persons Unit after bungling a major homicide investigation.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A harried-looking woman in grey tracksuit pants and an oversized jumper was holding the door open. ‘Are you with the visiting side?’

  ‘Ah, no.’ Steven quickly extended a hand as he introduced himself. ‘And this is DSC Williams.’

  ‘Detective Leading Senior Constable,’ Morton corrected.

  The woman looked less than impressed as she ushered the men through the clubrooms.

  ‘I already spoke with the police on Saturday, and we have a big group using our facilities at the moment,’ she said. ‘It really isn’t a great time.’

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Steven insisted.

  The smell of sweat, hormones and far too much adolescent deodorant created a nauseating aroma as they followed the woman through a gym, complete with inspirational posters on every wall. ‘Losers talk but winners work!’ ‘Pain is temporary but pride is forever!’ Steven watched Morton scan the room, his entire face now set in a glower.

  ‘Let’s go into the president’s office,’ the woman said. ‘But I don’t have long.’

  An ostentatious trophy cabinet ran along the length of the small room, and plaques covered most of the back wall.

  ‘It looks like the football club is very successful.’ Steven took the liberty of perching himself on a grey sofa.

  ‘No more than any other club. I assume you’re here about Natale Gibson?’

  Steven pulled out his notepad.

  ‘Yes. Tell us what happened on Friday.’

  The woman’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘Well, as I already told the other officers, I was at the front door – much where I met you today – ticking off arrivals for the last day of the school holiday program. It was around 8.15 when Natale came in. I remember that because one of our football coaches had wanted to start the warm-up, and we were waiting for Dario.’

  ‘Okay. And what happened next?’

  The woman shrugged.

  ‘Not much. She signed in her two children – Dario was booked in for the football clinic but Aria was doing the general program, so they were taken to separate rooms – and then, from memory, Natale went and watched all of the first football session out on the oval before leaving. That’s the last time I saw her.’

  Steven shook his right hand; his fingers hurt from gripping the pen too tightly.

  ‘How did she seem to you? Was there anything unusual about her behaviour?’

  Again, the woman seemed frustrated by the line of questioning; her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply.

  ‘Not that I could tell, but I didn’t really talk to her.’ She paused, twisting her mouth as though considering whether to continue. ‘I’m just a volunteer here, and like most of the parents I help as much as I can . . ’

  ‘And Natale didn’t help?’ Steven pressed.

  ‘No.’ Again the woman’s nostrils flared. ‘We asked her a few times, but she always had some excuse for why she couldn’t chip in. I’d told her we’re all busy, and without volunteers the club wouldn’t survive.’

  ‘I see.’ Steven tapped his notepad. ‘And what about her husband, Brian. What was he like?’

  ‘Well, he ended up having to come and pick the kids up on Friday, as I’m sure you know. That was at about 6.30 p.m. – I had to stay back late and I can tell you I wasn’t happy about it. I didn’t say much to him, and he’s not supposed to be anywhere on our site, of course, but we made an exception this one time.’

  ‘What do you mean he’s not supposed to be on your site?’

  The woman’s eyes glimmered in a strange, almost demonic way.

  ‘He was banned from the club a couple of months ago after blowing up at a junior umpire. It was the poor kid’s first match, and that oaf threatened to beat the daylights out of him. He’s never umpired since.’

  Steven shot a look at Morton but was disappointed to see that his colleague was busy picking at whatever bit of food was stuck between his teeth, seemingly oblivious to this juicy bit of information.

  ‘So Brian has a short temper, does he?’

  ‘You can say that again,’ the woman snorted. ‘And the son isn’t much better, let me tell you. I don’t think I’d be speaking out of line if I said all of the parents are hoping he moves to another club.’

  The surprise must have been evident on Steven’s face, because the woman quickly added, ‘But of course we’re all terribly worried about Natale. We’d never want anything bad to happen to her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The sound of a loud shriek echoed down the hallway, and the woman stood up.

  ‘I need to check that they’re not damaging anything. It’s good for the club to rent their rooms to visiting teams, but it’s a bloody pain.’

  Steven pulled his most sympathetic expression.

  ‘Could you just quickly run me through how this holiday program worked?’

  ‘There’s not much to it.’ The woman shrugged. ‘A group of football coaches take most of the sports classes, and then we get qualified child carers to take the other sessions: painting, reading, whatever. We run the same program every school holiday period.’

  ‘Did Natale’s children attend every day?’<
br />
  ‘They came every day of the second week, but they weren’t enrolled for the first week.’

  Another loud shriek pierced the air.

  ‘I really have to go.’

  ‘Okay, thank you for your time.’ Steven stood up, exaggeratedly motioning for Morton to do the same. His colleague had been absolutely useless once again. ‘Is there a number we can call, if we think of anything else?’

  The woman looked around the office, and then plucked a business card from the desk.

  ‘These are the details of our club president. He’s a better contact than me. I’m really not sure what else I could add.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Steven smiled, taking the card and placing it in his jacket pocket, before deliberately brushing past Morton on his way to the door. ‘You’ve been more than enough help already.’

  The short drive from the city to Ascot Vale, where Natale and her family lived, was relatively painless, and Emmett was making good time when his phone rang. He answered, waiting the required second for the hands-free system in his car to activate before speaking.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mr Norman.’ His shoulders slumped. What could Rosemary’s brother want already? ‘I’ve been working through those numbers you gave me.’

  ‘Actually, I was ringing to tell you that I just got a message from her.’ Daniel’s voice was annoyingly soft, and Emmett found himself straining to hear. ‘I thought I should call you straight away.’

  ‘That’s great! Is she okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She didn’t say much.’

  Emmett’s attention was suddenly diverted, as a car cut in front of him.

  ‘Hang on.’ He hit his brakes and made a sharp left so that he was weaving through the backstreets of North Melbourne. ‘Sorry about that. So you’ve got a message from her?’

  ‘Yes. But it just says chill out. I don’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘At least she’s contacted you.’

  Daniel murmured something indecipherable.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I still think something’s not right. Why hasn’t she responded to me sooner? And why would she skip Tom’s birthday? She’d already confirmed she was coming; she would have said something if she wasn’t going to make it.’

  Emmett felt his wrists twinge as he gripped the steering wheel harder. The last thing he had time for now was getting caught up in the middle of a family tiff.

  ‘The most important thing is that she’s okay.’

  ‘She’s not answering her phone, though. I tried to call her as soon as I got that message, and she didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Has there been some sort of falling-out between the two of you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Emmett sighed. Part of his job was prioritising cases, and this one simply didn’t warrant any urgency. Besides – he slowed in front of a small strip of shops and waved for a pedestrian to cross in front of him – it really wasn’t his problem if Rosemary was choosing to avoid her brother.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you told me that she’s messaged.’

  ‘I’m going to try visiting her later tonight.’

  ‘Good idea. Let me know how that goes.’

  After hanging up, Emmett shifted his attention to the quiet residential street that he’d just turned in to. Number 2 . . there we go.

  He’d pulled up outside a large, two-storey brick house, surrounded by a white lattice fence that looked freshly painted. The front garden was perfectly manicured, with an impressively healthy fig tree in the middle.

  Emmett zipped up his jacket as he got out of the car, and quickly scanned the area.

  Directly across from the house was a park with a modest children’s playground and an old horse stable. The street itself was beautiful, with tall evergreens planted on generous nature strips, creating the impression that you were in one of Melbourne’s wealthier eastern suburbs. It seemed an idyllic place to bring up a young family.

  Rapping firmly on the front door, Emmett was disappointed when no one answered. He tried again. Still no answer.

  Stepping back, away from the front entrance, he again surveyed the house. To his right, white draped curtains hung over big bay windows, making it impossible to tell if anyone was inside. Further around, a gravel path wound its way to a gate, which he gently pushed open to access the back of the property.

  If you ignored the newly added townhouse – an awkward, imposing structure – the backyard was lovely, with tastefully decorated flowerbeds and a large vegetable patch that was carefully sectioned into different areas.

  Emmett bent down, peering at the wobbly handwriting on one of the garden stakes: ‘vine tomatoes’. He smiled. Someone had put a lot of love into creating this little oasis.

  ‘Are you the police?’

  Jumping up, he turned to find a frail woman standing at the back door of the main house. Her words were heavy with a thick Italian accent.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ He stepped forward. ‘Detective Emmett Corban.’

  The woman introduced herself as Francesca Mancini – Natale’s mother – and motioned for him to follow her inside. She led him into a sitting room, which had been turned into something of a shrine for her missing daughter. Photos of Natale were on the mantelpiece, the television, the benchtops, the crockery shelves and on every side table.

  Mrs Mancini picked up a frame. Her eyes sparkled.

  ‘This was taken when Natale was just sixteen, at her high school debutante ball. Isn’t she beautiful?’

  Emmett took the photo. The smiling brunette looked back at him happily. ‘Yes, she certainly is,’ he said.

  The bright eyes of the elderly mother glistened as she put the photo back, before she retreated to another room, returning with a plate of Italian biscuits and some coffee.

  Emmett hated to drink caffeine this late in the day, but he knew he would appear rude if he declined.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a cup and a biscuit.

  Mrs Mancini sat down on the sofa opposite. ‘My daughter’s a good girl,’ she said quietly. ‘You have to find her.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can.’ Emmett shuffled forward on the couch. ‘Can you tell me about the last few weeks? Was there anything unusual going on in your daughter’s life?’

  Mrs Mancini shook her head sadly.

  ‘No. Natale was just enjoying having the children at home with her during the school break. The first week they went to the zoo and the aquarium. I was meant to go with them too but my husband’s been a bit unwell.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And then last week she took them to a holiday program . . but she never came back.’ Mrs Mancini paused, as a small noise escaped from her mouth. ‘They were all so happy. I can’t believe this has happened.’

  Emmett lowered his eyes as the woman started sobbing.

  ‘When did you know something was wrong?’

  ‘Brian came over on Friday night and asked if we’d seen her. He said she hadn’t picked the children up. I knew straight away that something bad had happened. She would never forget them like that. Something terrible has happened.’

  Standing up, Emmett took the liberty of retrieving a box of tissues from the sideboard. Mrs Mancini blew her nose vigorously.

  From behind them a hinge squeaked, and an elderly man moved gingerly into the room, cautiously lowering himself onto the end of the sofa, next to his wife. His skin had a slightly yellow tinge, and Emmett didn’t need to be told that Gino Mancini – Natale’s father – wasn’t well.

  ‘So neither of you saw your daughter again, at any stage, after she left for the holiday program on Friday?’ Emmett continued, once all the formalities were out of the way.

  Mrs Mancini sniffed loudly as she and Gino shook their heads.

  ‘Do you know why she wanted the children to be in the holiday program? Did she need that week to herself for some particular reason?’

  ‘She’d started studying again.’ Mrs Mancini placed a shaking hand on her husband’s
knee. ‘But mainly it was just because the children wanted to go.’

  ‘She’s studying?’ Emmett couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘What course is she taking?’

  ‘It’s a certificate in aged care.’ Mrs Mancini smiled proudly. ‘She’s up to the final unit, which is a placement at a nursing home. She promised to use her lessons to take good care of us.’

  ‘Okay . . ’ Emmett mentally ran through his conversation with Brian. Why hadn’t he mentioned this? ‘Is her husband supportive of her return to study?’

  Natale’s parents shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ Mrs Mancini eventually murmured. ‘She’s only studying part time, taking classes when the children are at school.’

  ‘He doesn’t know?’

  ‘She didn’t think he’d want her to do it.’

  ‘I see. So on the Friday when she went missing, was she doing this placement?’

  Again, Natale’s parents looked uncomfortable, and Emmett was sure he saw them exchange a knowing look. But to his frustration Mrs Mancini simply shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed.

  ‘What about her social network? Was there anyone she mentioned catching up with that week? Particularly on the Friday?’

  ‘She doesn’t have many friends.’ Gino spoke for the first time, his words slow and deliberate. ‘She used to have lots of friends, but once she met Brian, all that stopped.’

  Emmett stayed silent, hoping Natale’s father would continue. He didn’t.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Gino looked to the sky before answering. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s the way the girls are these days, isn’t it? At high school they go out and all they want is to party and socialise with their friends. Then they find a man and all they want is to be at home and have babies. That’s what she did.’

  Emmett took a sip of his coffee, unable to get himself to agree with Gino’s rather sweeping view of women. He thought about Cindy. If anything, having a child seemed to have made her want to get out of the house more and more. Maybe Natale had secretly been desperate to get out too?

  ‘And Brian is working?’