‘Sure. See you back at the station.’
Emmett watched as his young colleague drove away, mist rising from the road as the car disappeared around a corner. A dull throb had started building around his temples.
Steven was right to worry about the Gibson case; he was worried too. How was his small team going to manage two potential murder investigations along with all their other cases? He would have to ask Bryce for more resources.
Another gust of wind kicked up, and Emmett wrapped his arms around his chest, picturing the sad man stirring his coffee. He didn’t like Rosemary’s brother, but there was a vulnerability to him that was hard to ignore.
Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the familiar, earthy smell of wet leaves, noticing a shift in his senses, as though he was more alert: on edge, even.
He mentally ran through all the pressing lines of inquiry for both the Norman and the Gibson investigations. Then he marched to the car.
There was so much to do.
Applying the accelerator vigorously, he gripped the steering wheel tighter.
He’d totally underestimated Rosemary’s disappearance.
Emmett glared at the set of traffic lights that had insisted on turning red on his approach.
He would not be making that mistake again.
Samir hung from the rings of the children’s playground, trying pointlessly to lift himself up to the bar. All his mates were able to do chin-ups, but he just found them impossible. It was as though his scrawny little arms were determined not to build muscle, no matter how many stupid exercises he tried.
He gave up, dropping down onto the tanbark below and wiping his dirty hands on the back of his pants. Beyond the school gates, he could see women gathering at the entrance of the Flemington Community Centre, early for their afternoon prayer group.
He scowled as he watched the women chat quietly to each other. He hated the centre. His mother had made him go to the free tutoring classes that were held there after school, but he’d given up after less than a term. The teachers didn’t like kids like him, so they picked on him, accusing him of stealing stationery and copying other people’s work. It was just like what happened here at school. It wasn’t fair.
‘There you are,’ Abit’s loud voice called out across the playground. ‘What do you want to do?’
Samir shrugged. It was the same question every lunchtime – what to do? There was nothing to do. That was the problem.
‘Do you want to sneak out to the shops and try some new video games?’
‘I’ve got no money.’ Samir kicked the dirt, trudging slowly beside his mates as they ambled aimlessly along the wire fence, until they were opposite the big block of flats in which they all lived.
Being government commission housing, the building was ugly and badly maintained. And the smell inside the stairwell made Samir so queasy that he had to cover his mouth every time he entered or left the small two-bedroom flat that he shared with his parents and younger sister.
‘I’ll see if Mum left any coins lying around,’ Abit said, ducking through a hole in the fence and running across the street, his lean figure eventually disappearing inside the dark entrance of the communal stairwell.
Samir stayed with the rest of his friends, watching out for teachers as they tried to come up with ways that they could spend another long, boring lunchbreak.
Just as Abit reappeared in the dark archway, Samir felt a familiar buzzing in the back pocket of his trousers. He pulled out his mobile phone, aware of the envious stares of his friends.
‘Where did you get that from?’ Lyon’s eyes were wide.
‘He says he found it, but we all think he stole it,’ Jayden said smugly.
Samir shrugged. He didn’t care what his friends thought. The phone had a slight dent on the right of the screen, but other than that it was in perfect condition. Best of all, he was getting to use it for free.
He checked the screen quickly, before shoving the phone back in his pocket. He’d learnt not to answer unknown calls, and he’d stopped replying to the messages as well.
At first it had been funny to respond to some of the texts, but over the past days they’d got more and more frequent, and more and more desperate.
Please answer me Rosie.
Why won’t you pick up?
WHERE ARE YOU?
Samir didn’t want to be reminded that the phone was not actually his, and he wanted the messages and calls to stop.
‘This is all I could find.’ Abit ducked back through the hole, before presenting his mates with a handful of silver coins. ‘We could get a snack?’
One by one, the boys slipped through the fence, Samir looking nervously back at the school before running to catch up with his friends at the park around the corner. It wasn’t uncommon that they skipped class, but it always made him anxious.
‘Have we got enough for fries?’ Lyon was eagerly watching Abit sort through the coins.
‘Think so.’
The friends started drifting towards the edge of the park, before crossing the road and wandering through the front of a petrol station.
‘Ow!’ Abit suddenly cried out, as he tripped over something.
The boys jeered, and only Samir was considerate enough to at least try to hide the smirk on his face. He knew Abit wouldn’t take well to being laughed at.
Sure enough, his friend was angry. ‘Oh yeah?’ Abit yelled to no one in particular.
A woman filling up her small red car jumped in fright.
‘Do you want to try me?’
The woman stared determinedly down at the petrol pump in her hand.
‘What’s that?’ Samir had noticed a shiny silver tube on the ground – the offending object that had tripped up his friend, no doubt.
‘Give it to me.’ Abit took the metal pipe and started drumming it into the palm of his hand. ‘This gives me an idea. Why don’t we go to the pizza shop and see if that Indian boy is working? We can use this to teach him a bit of respect.’
The boys all sniggered, but Samir felt uneasy. He hated the way his friends picked on the Indian delivery driver. He wanted to say something, but instead he found himself mutely following at the back of the pack, zigzagging across residential streets and then following his friends into the staff carpark at the back of Antonio’s Pizza Parlour.
The group crouched down behind the big dumpster.
‘What are you going to do?’ Samir whispered.
‘Relax.’ Abit picked up some gravel and threw the stones in the direction of the back door. ‘I’m just going to scare him a bit.’
They sat there for a good ten minutes before the sound of the pizza shop motorbike could be heard cruising in. Samir’s heart sank when he saw it was the Indian kid.
‘Hey, brown boy!’ Abit yelled. ‘Brown boy, come here!’
The delivery driver kept his head bowed, as Samir’s friends took turns peppering him with rocks and gravel, before he ducked into the back of the store.
‘Did you see the way he looked at us?’ Abit asked. ‘When he comes out next time, we’ll scare him good.’
The others all dutifully cackled and murmured their agreement, but Samir wanted to leave.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘This is boring.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ Abit sneered. ‘We’re not going anywhere until that kid learns some respect.’
The friends watched in silent awe as Abit crept up to the parked motorbike, tugging at it in an attempt to move it away from the back entrance.
‘Quick!’ he yelled. ‘Come and help me.’
Two of the boys jumped up, and with the three of them pulling at the bike they were able to drag it a short distance, so that it was now standing in front of some large recycling bins.
‘Come on.’ Abit waved to the others, and they all joined him, crouching down low.
‘What are you going to do?’ Samir asked again, anxiously.
‘I’m just going to give him a bit of a fright.’ Abit kept his eyes fixed on
the back door, before apparently remembering that Samir had a phone. ‘Make sure you film this. I want everybody to see how we taught this boy some respect.’
Samir noticed a nauseous sensation building in the pit of his stomach, but he did what he was told, gingerly holding out his new phone as he stayed hidden with his friends. He really hoped the delivery boy wouldn’t come back out.
Eventually, though, the jingle of bells from above the rear door sounded, and the group watched as the Indian boy nervously poked his head out, casting a quick glance at the dumpster, then deciding he was safe to leave.
He didn’t seem to notice that his bike was parked further away, and, after putting the pizzas into the container on the back, he straddled the seat and reached to put his helmet on.
Whack.
The metal bar struck the side of his head with such force that he fell to the ground instantly – his bike toppling over him.
‘That’ll teach you a lesson,’ Abit hissed, fleeing down the street.
The rest of the group followed, laughing manically.
Samir found himself frozen to the spot, his phone still held out in front of him, the camera still recording.
He didn’t want to see the weeping eyes, or the blood that was gently trickling along the ground, but for some reason he couldn’t look away.
After a while, the boy warily raised his right hand, as though asking for help to get up. The small action was enough to break the spell, and Samir found himself shoving his phone in his pocket, before turning and running after his friends.
He didn’t look back as he sprinted down the narrow street, cutting across a laneway and dashing past the row of takeaway shops that his friends sometimes ate in.
He only stopped when he was on the edge of the big park that surrounded the ugly commission flats, so that he could lean against a tall oak tree and vomit.
It was Christmas Eve.
Maria sighed as she put the last of the children’s presents under the tree. With five littlies to take care of now, her budget had been well and truly stretched. She’d made a bit of money by selling a few of her old porcelain figurines at a market stall, and the kind woman at the op shop had even lowered the asking price on some of the items she’d wanted to buy, but she still hadn’t been able to afford much. She felt so guilty.
Somewhere, in another house, children would be unwrapping the latest gadgets and designer clothes. In her household, the children would find second-hand board games (some with a couple of the pieces missing), books that had someone else’s name scrawled in the front, and clothing that was either ill-fitting or slightly stained.
The worst part was when they’d compare what they got with their friends from school. No matter how much love you gave a child on Christmas Day, it was impossible to compete with the latest and greatest shiny new toy.
Maria shifted around the base of the tree, adjusting the gifts so they were spread out. On top of each child’s present, she’d tied a home-baked biscuit, carefully iced in their favourite colour. She stood back and admired the sight. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was beautiful. She desperately hoped it would be enough to delight the children when they woke the next morning.
Turning off the light, she tiptoed down the hallway and sat on the end of her bed. There, she bowed her head, and quietly prayed that tomorrow would be a happy day.
From the darkness of his room, the boy waited until he was sure the woman had gone to sleep. Then he started his brave expedition into the kitchen, his small feet cold on the hard linoleum tiles.
When he reached the kitchen counter, he stood on his tippy toes, and gently pulled the top drawer open. It squeaked slightly as he tugged at it, and he froze, waiting to see if anyone stirred. Then, once he was sure he was safe, he prodded around, feeling forks, knives and spoons – not what he was after.
He tried the second drawer. This one was easier, because he was almost tall enough to see into it. His hand fell on a ball of string, a thin packet of something and then – yes – he smiled as his fingers rested on the small cardboard box. This was what he wanted.
He took his new treasure and inspected it in both hands, feeling the rough strips that ran down its edges. He’d seen the woman use this box before, and he was sure he could do it too. He popped it safely in his pocket and continued his journey through the dark. His plan was to make it to the back garden, where he could try out his new toy with no one watching.
But as he passed through the living room the boy was shocked to find the big pine tree was now surrounded by presents. A rush of excitement kicked in as he counted: one, two, three, four, five . . five presents! Picking up a big red one, he shook it vigorously, thrilled to hear a rattling noise from inside the packaging. He wondered what it might be.
Then his eyes landed on a small box with a blue biscuit on it. His body shook with anticipation as he happily pulled the biscuit from the ribbon and ripped the paper. Inside was a pair of brown socks, with diamond patterns on them, and a smaller box that had playing cards in it. He put the socks on and opened the box of playing cards. He’d seen the other children play with cards, but he wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with them. He picked out one with red diamonds on its corners, noticing how the shape matched the pattern on his socks.
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by the discarded wrapping paper, the boy felt an immense glow. He’d never opened a present before. It made him feel special. He couldn’t wait to see what else was under the tree.
Crawling on all fours, the boy inspected one present after the other, happily comparing the colours of the biscuits and the sizes of the gifts. He was just reaching for a large, rectangular present, when a gentle rattle in his pocket reminded him about the box of matches that he’d taken from the kitchen.
He sat up and slid the box open before trying to strike one, just the way he’d seen Maria do it. Nothing happened. He tried again, a bit firmer this time. The small stick broke in his hand. He threw it on the floor angrily. He’d seen the woman do this so many times. It couldn’t be that hard.
The boy broke the next match, and the next, and the one after. But finally, a tiny spark appeared, growing before his eyes. It was fantastic.
Reaching for the playing cards, he took out the red diamond card again and watched in wonder as the orange flame gently danced from the match to the card. It was like magic.
Soon the red diamond was gone, as the dancing flame ate away at the cardboard until it was too hot for him to hold any more. He placed it on top of the rectangular present, and watched as the gold wrapping on the gift started smoking before it too was swallowed up in an orange haze.
Then he tried lighting another match. This one lit on his first attempt and he happily placed it straight onto another present so that more wrapping paper could catch on fire.
He took out another playing card and set that on fire too. Then he did another, and another. By the time he’d set a few cards on fire, most of the wrapping on the gifts was also well alight.
That was when he noticed that the carpet under the pink present had started smoking. The boy watched it for a while, mesmerised. Then he ran out of the living room, down the hallway and back into the small room he shared with two of the other children. There, he snuggled himself up warmly under his doona, and stared at the ceiling.
As he lay in the dark, his chest still pounding lightly, he wriggled his feet in his brand-new socks. He smiled happily. They felt really comfy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were standing out the front of the large brick building, Steven tugging pointlessly at the locked door, while Morton used a stick to scrape mud off his shoes.
‘I hate football,’ the grumpy detective muttered. ‘You’d never see me bothering with such a stupid game.’
Steven glanced up and down at his rotund partner, forcing himself to bite his tongue about the physical characteristics one might need to participate in such a vigorous contact sport.
He tried the door again. It didn’t bu
dge.
‘I just assumed someone would be here,’ he said, more to himself than to his colleague.
‘You didn’t think to call ahead? Great work.’ Morton sniggered, before wandering off around the back of the clubrooms.
‘Hang on,’ Steven called after him. ‘We can’t leave yet.’
On Emmett’s instructions, he’d insisted Morton meet him back at the football club where the Gibson children had attended their school holiday program, but he hadn’t anticipated the grounds would be deserted.
‘I’ll call the club president.’ Steven pulled out the business card he’d received the previous day, as his colleague’s paunchy figure appeared around the corner. ‘Let’s see if they can access their cameras remotely.’
‘Don’t bother. They haven’t got any cameras.’
‘What?’
‘They haven’t got any cameras – look for yourself.’
Taking several steps back, Steven scanned the building. He hated to admit it, but his lazy sod of a partner was right. The football club didn’t seem to have any surveillance equipment whatsoever.
‘I’ve checked the perimeter and there’s no cameras and no entrances other than that main driveway.’ Morton pointed behind them, to the far side of the oval over which they’d just trudged. ‘So let’s see what we can get out on the street, and stop wasting our time here.’
Steven felt his jaw drop. This was the first bit of initiative he’d ever seen his superior demonstrate. He wasn’t sure how to react.
‘What time did that club volunteer say Natale arrived?’ Morton barked over his shoulder, already striding across the grass.
‘Eight-fifteen.’
‘Right. Well, let’s find some witnesses who would have been around at that time on Friday.’
On the club’s side of the road, the oval was surrounded by houses, most with high fences to block the sound of the passing traffic. Steven wandered up and back. It was unlikely any of the residents would have been able to see anything, even if they were home.
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