‘What have you got there?’ Bianca asked, gently.
‘This was Natale’s favourite.’ Francesca squeezed the toy tighter into her body. ‘She always had this with her. When she was a little girl we could never go anywhere if we didn’t have Bunny with us.’
‘What was she like, as a child?’
For the first time, Francesca’s expression lightened; her eyes sparkled.
‘She was so funny and cheeky. She loved to show off and try to make people laugh. She was always getting in trouble at school for this or that. But she was a good girl really. And she adored her father; they were always together, the two of them, playing at the park or digging in the garden . . ’ Natale’s mother stopped and reached for a tissue. ‘I think this will break Gino.’ She blew her nose vigorously. ‘He won’t cope without his princess.’
‘Where is your husband?’ Emmett asked, suddenly realising that Gino must be around.
‘In bed.’ Francesca sniffed loudly, her eyes following the figures of three forensics officers passing by with several large brown bags. ‘This is all too much for him.’
‘I understand.’
The detectives waited as the elderly woman again buried her face in the worn fur of the pink bunny, now damp from tears.
‘Why are you still crying?’ A small voice came from somewhere beyond the dining table.
Both detectives turned in surprise.
‘Hello, you must be Dario?’ Emmett smiled as the young boy approached.
The boy scowled.
‘And who’s that behind you? Hello, Aria.’
The children were gorgeous, the boy with deep, molten brown eyes, and the young girl with rosy, chubby cheeks.
Emmett felt a shooting pain in his chest. Their faces were so scared and unsure. He couldn’t imagine Nicholas having to grow up without his mum.
‘Are you staying at home with Grandma today?’
Dario stared blankly at the detective, but the little girl nodded.
‘Maybe you could show me some of your toys?’ Bianca stood up and took a firm grip of each child’s hand. ‘I bet you’ve got some great games.’
After the children had disappeared, Emmett turned back to Francesca.
‘And what about Brian? Was he a good partner for your daughter?’
‘We never liked him.’ The elderly woman didn’t waste time trying to be diplomatic. ‘But Natale was in love. There was nothing we could say that would change her mind.’
‘Were there difficulties in their relationship?’
‘At first it was good, but in the last few years they were always fighting. It was so loud, their arguing – we could hear them from our bedroom window. And Brian would yell and throw things. One time he smashed a window. Gino had to go around and fix it.’
‘Mrs Mancini,’ Emmett shuffled forward, the soft leather of the chair he was in squeaking as he did so, ‘was Brian ever violent towards Natale or the children?’
Francesca hesitated.
‘She showed me a bruise once, around the base of her neck. That was when she was pregnant with Aria.’
‘Was Natale scared of him? Were you?’
‘Her only worry was for the children, and I knew he wouldn’t do anything to me as long as Gino was around. He needed us for his job – and for his home.’
‘Did Natale ever ask Brian to leave?’
‘She wanted to, but the children loved him, even though he was so angry all the time. We talked about that a lot, though.’
‘You and your daughter were very close?’
‘Of course. We told each other everything.’
‘I see.’ Emmett paused as the clanging of the back door alerted him to his colleague’s return.
‘The children are playing outside in the garden.’ Bianca settled back on the couch beside Natale’s mother. ‘I’ve made sure the side gate is latched.’
Emmett shifted in his seat. He remembered his first visit to the Mancinis’, and the knowing looks he’d seen Francesca and her husband exchange.
‘Mrs Mancini, we’ve found footage of your daughter taking a tram into the city last Friday, after she dropped the children at the holiday program. Do you have any idea where she might have been going? Was she meeting someone?’
Francesca fiddled with the bunny in her lap, picking at imaginary bits of fluff.
‘I don’t know. Maybe that study placement?’
‘We’ve checked that – she’d already attended earlier in the week, and she wasn’t due there on the Friday.’
‘Well, then I’m not sure.’
‘It’s important you tell us, if you do know,’ Bianca whispered. ‘No matter what she was doing, she didn’t deserve this.’
Natale’s mother sniffed. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Can you try?’
Francesca shifted on the couch, dropping her daughter’s old toy and wrapping the shawl around her tighter. For a moment it looked like she was going to stay silent, but then she dropped her chin to her chest, her lips trembling.
‘She had an appointment. She went to a clinic.’
‘What sort of clinic?’ Emmett asked softly, pressing a tissue into the elderly woman’s hand.
Francesca’s face contorted.
‘She’d found out she was pregnant,’ Natale’s mother eventually whispered. ‘But she didn’t want another baby.’
‘She was having a termination?’ Emmett’s mouth turned dry.
‘Gino and I told her not to go – we would have happily looked after another child, but she insisted. She made us promise we wouldn’t tell anyone. She was so ashamed.’
The detectives watched as Natale’s mother bowed her head and wept.
‘Did Brian know?’ Bianca asked.
‘No.’ Francesca wiped her face with both hands, before sitting up taller and looking straight ahead. ‘He had no idea.’
The cuts on his hand had turned from red to brown, and the boy found himself staring at his palms in wonder.
He’d been practising using the stones under the prickly tree to toughen himself up, and he was proud to say that he could now etch small shapes into his skin without even flinching.
But it was the miraculous way that his body recovered that had him so transfixed. Even one really deep cut, which he’d carved on the soft flesh of his left palm, was now healing – the top layer of skin gently folding over the incision, as though stitching itself back up. It was amazing.
‘Ow!’ The boy felt a sharp pang on his neck.
The sound of muffled sniggering from the back told him that Scott and his mates were at it again, probably flicking rubber bands or something worse, and the boy forced himself not to turn around.
‘Okay.’ Mr Stanakis clapped his hands at the front of the room, before pointing to the blackboard, where he’d stuck magazine clippings. ‘These are some pictures of families spending time together. Who can tell us what the first picture shows?’
‘A playground!’ a boy at the front yelled out.
‘That’s right, Stewart. Here we can see a mum and dad enjoying time with their daughter on the swings at a park. What does this picture show?’
‘Playing a game!’ another child squealed.
The teacher continued to point at the photos, before stopping and turning to his class.
‘These are all examples of ways families might spend time together. Now I’ll get you each to draw a picture of your own family, doing something that you enjoy. You might be at the park, or in the pool, or sitting at home, whatever you like. Then we will put all the pages together into one big classroom family book.’
The teacher clapped his hands together and beamed, as though gifting his students with a great joy.
‘Mr Stanakis!’ A girl with blonde pigtails bounced in her seat.
‘Yes, Athena?’
‘Can we draw our brothers and sisters? Can we include our pets?’
‘Absolutely! Anyone who you consider to be part of your family can be included in your pictures
.’
An excited buzz spread around the room, but the boy felt himself worry. He didn’t like thinking about his family; he didn’t even know if he had a real family.
He had got used to living with the old couple, but he knew they weren’t his mum and dad. And he definitely didn’t have brothers or sisters – or a pet. Who could he draw?
Closing his eyes, the boy tried remembering his mum, but all he could remember was that she was dead. He remembered she was dead, because he remembered the smell when she died.
‘Here you go.’ Mr Stanakis was walking around the room handing out coloured pieces of paper.
The other boys were choosing purple and blue sheets, but by the time the teacher got to him there were only pink papers left.
‘Ha-ha! You got pink because you’re a girl!’ Scott yelled loudly.
The boy felt his cheeks flush.
Putting his head down, he stared at his pink sheet of paper. What could he draw?
He looked up to the blackboard for inspiration. In every picture the teacher had posted, there was always a mum and a dad with either one or two children, and they were all laughing, not crying or hiding or yelling at the awful men who came past.
‘I’m going to draw my dad taking me to a football game!’ a girl in the second row proudly declared.
The boy thought about this. Had he ever even had a dad? He didn’t think so. He certainly hadn’t been taken to a football game.
After staring at his page a while longer, he decided he’d start by drawing the seaside – that was his home. The beach had only been a short walk from the small flat where he’d lived with his mum, and it was their happy place. When they were at the beach it was like they had no cares in the world; it was just the two of them, playing, splashing, and sleeping in the sun, and he could vividly remember the feeling of trotting home together, sandy but happy.
Picking up a blue pencil, the boy started by drawing the waves, crashing down towards the sand. Then he drew the rickety old wooden pier where he and his mum would sometimes walk, and the bright-coloured towels that would be lined up next to each other.
As he looked at his picture, a terrible aching started in his chest. He missed the rush of dipping his toes in the cold water, the spike of seashells under his feet and, most of all, of feeling his mum’s hand squeeze his as they leapt over the crashing waves.
He gulped, as a big, fat tear rolled down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, terrified that Scott and his friends might have seen.
‘Okay, only a few minutes to go,’ Mr Stanakis called from the front of the room.
The boy looked at his drawing of the beach in panic; he was nowhere near finished.
Grabbing another pencil, he hurriedly continued, remembering the seagulls that would fly overhead, the sandbank that would sometimes appear out in the middle of the waves and the mushy green seaweed that would dance at the water’s edge.
For another few minutes, the boy allowed himself to just draw and draw, enjoying the feeling of being back there, on St Kilda beach – he and his mum together again.
He got so lost in his memories that he didn’t even notice the wetness in his lap.
It was only when Gracie, the girl who was next to him, screamed that the boy looked down and realised what had happened.
‘Mr Stanakis, something smells funny!’ Gracie pinched her nose dramatically.
The room erupted into laughter and jeers, as Mr Stanakis walked the boy, his pants dripping with urine, out of the room.
By the time he was cleaned up and wearing an oversized pair of emergency pants, the other children were outside playing, already well into their lunchbreak.
The boy crept back into the classroom.
The mess was gone, but a bucket, sponge and pair of rubber gloves sat at the front of the room, and the boy squirmed as he imagined the teacher wiping his chair, where pee had trickled down onto the floor, creating dark stains on the carpet.
He went over to his desk and picked up his unusual seaside drawing. His eyes welled as he looked at the angular woman he’d drawn, lying asleep on her back, the spiky needle that was sticking out of her arm, and the small child that was drawn huddled nearby, with little blue tears spilling down its cheeks.
He bit his lower lip.
His drawing was so different to the others; no wonder his classmates picked on him.
He pressed his picture close to his face, kissing the spiky image of his mum, before scrunching the paper up into a tight ball and lobbing it into a nearby bin.
Then he marched defiantly out the door.
He was sick of being different.
He would not be sharing his special memories with anyone ever again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They left Francesca with one of the forensics officers, sobbing quietly on the couch as she rocked back and forth.
‘How tragic,’ Bianca whispered, as they slowly crossed the backyard.
The door to the Gibsons’ townhouse was wide open.
‘Anything of interest?’ Emmett asked, as a woman appeared, holding a large bag of evidence.
‘Some clothes from the victim, a hairbrush . . the usual sort of things.’ The woman smiled sadly.
Emmett nodded, stepping inside and poking his head in the modest entertainment area. The room looked largely undisturbed, the knitted pink and white blanket still carefully folded atop the burgundy couch.
‘Let’s head upstairs.’
In the main bedroom, forensic officers were working in quiet synchronicity, opening and closing drawers, sorting through the laundry hamper.
‘What do you think this stain is?’ a man asked, holding up a grey jumper and running a gloved finger over the brown smear.
Bianca moved closer. ‘Hard to say, but let’s get that tested.’
The children’s rooms revealed little, though a handwritten note from Natale to her son was carefully placed in a sealed bag.
So proud of you, my big boy! Have a fun day, Love Mumma xo
As they made their way back out to the landing, past the family canvases that were cheerfully hanging on the walls, a thought struck Emmett.
‘Brian Gibson might as well be invisible.’
‘What?’ Bianca stopped and turned, already one step down the staircase.
‘Have a look.’ He pointed at the photos.
There were Natale and Aria in matching outfits, there was Dario swinging his golf club, and there were the two children playing a board game.
‘These are professional family photos – wouldn’t the father want to be included?’
‘Maybe he’s just camera shy?’ Bianca shrugged.
‘But think about it.’ Emmett scratched his head, realising what had bothered him so much the first time he’d been to see Natale’s parents. ‘What evidence is there of Brian living here? Just a few dirty clothes – that’s it. There’s no memorabilia, no gaming console, no favourite football team displayed . . nothing.’
His colleague hesitated.
‘I did notice that none of the photos in the Mancinis’ sitting room included Brian – not even a wedding photo.’
‘Exactly. There’s no permanence to his existence here.’
‘You think he had some sort of double life going on?’ Bianca smirked, marching down the rest of the stairs. ‘You’ve been reading too many detective novels.’
Letting it go, Emmett followed his colleague into the kitchen, where cupboards were being emptied out onto benchtops, the cutlery drawer meticulously inspected.
At the far end, several officers were standing in a small huddle. Emmett could see that photos were being taken.
‘What have you found?’ he asked.
‘It was in the broom closet.’ A forensics officer gestured for the detectives to come closer. ‘I thought it was unusually heavy. Have a look.’
As he bent down to inspect the blue duffel bag on the floor, Emmett noticed that Francesca was now standing in the garden, watching the activity through the kitchen
window. He was happy to see that she’d changed into cosy chequered flannelette pyjama pants, and a fluffy white dressing-gown.
‘We’re nearly done,’ he called out, unsure by the woman’s lack of response as to whether she’d heard.
The forensics officer passed him some gloves.
‘Have a look.’
Dipping his hand into the bag, Emmett pulled out the first of many wads of cash.
‘Well, what do we have here?’ He looked to Bianca in astonishment.
The notes were a mixture of denominations, bundled together with a rubber band. Underneath, ziplock bags were filled with coins.
‘That certainly is quite the rainy-day fund,’ his colleague muttered.
Emmett paused so that more photographs could be taken, before zipping the bag closed.
‘Let’s get this away for testing.’
As he stood up, his back cracking slightly, he again felt the weight of eyes upon him.
Turning to the window he saw that the small figure of Francesca Mancini hadn’t moved.
He waved, but Natale’s mother didn’t return the courtesy.
Her face was set in a deep scowl.
Overcast days were normally Cindy’s preferred conditions to shoot in, but for some reason none of her photographs were working out.
‘Damn it,’ she cursed as the strap of her backpack slipped off her shoulder.
She was huddled under an archway, trying to capture a group of teenage skateboarders making the most of the unusual art installations by the waterfront.
Despite a solid hour of shooting, she’d produced nothing of any use.
She was considering relocating, when her phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Cindy!’
Michael’s warm voice instantly transported her back a day, to their boozy lunch, that tender kiss and the feeling of her tutor’s arms wrapping around her tightly.
‘I’m just stopping past the Docklands and thought you might be up for a little mid-morning coffee break?’
Cindy’s face flushed. She’d gone to sleep the previous night convincing herself that their cheeky embrace had been a one-off; a forgivable misadventure that would fade into the halls of her memory – foolish, but not malicious.
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