‘I’m not really sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘The doctor didn’t tell me.’
Owen sighed and rubbed his forehead. He was clearly regretting wasting his time with her.
Abbie’s eyes began to well up. She was so sick of people making her feel stupid. ‘I’m doing my best,’ she blurted, a little too loudly.
On the far side of the hall, a tall woman turned, her eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘I’m not here to judge you.’ The teacher lowered his voice, reaching behind him for a box of tissues, apparently aware of the torrent of tears that was threatening to break forth. ‘I’m just trying to understand the situation, so we can best support your son.’
The gentle words were too much, and as Abbie scrunched a tissue uselessly in her left palm, she lost all composure.
‘I’ve had a terrible day,’ she stammered. ‘And Spencer’s not really my son – well, he is – but he doesn’t know it.’
The teacher frowned.
‘He’s been living with my mother, you see, but she got angry after I forgot to take him to the school production, so then she turned up and left him on my porch. It’s been really difficult on me because I’m trying to get this great job at a finance company, and I’ve met this guy, but he doesn’t know I have a child . . ’
Unable to stop the stream of words flooding out of her mouth, Abbie shared far more than she’d intended: the pain of the teenage pregnancy, the guilt at missing so many of Spencer’s milestones, her multiple attempts to have some kind of relationship with him, her fear that his illness was in some way her doing, and her inability to follow through with even the smallest of promises.
‘I’m just constantly letting him down,’ she sobbed.
The teacher pushed the box of tissues closer. ‘It sounds like you’ve both been through a lot.’
‘We have.’ Abbie wiped under her eyes, where ruined mascara was pooling. ‘And it never seems to get any better.’
‘I’d like to discuss this further with you. Perhaps we could schedule a time for later this week?’
Abbie nodded.
‘But for now, I really must be getting home. Why don’t I walk you out?’
In the corner of the room, Spencer had slumped against the wall. Abbie’s back strained as she reached down and picked him up.
‘Where are you parked?’ the teacher asked, as they walked across the sodden schoolyard.
It was no longer raining, but the ground was wet and slippery, and Abbie was dreading the long journey home.
‘I don’t have a car,’ she said. ‘We’re headed to the train station.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘We’re actually going to visit a friend in St Kilda.’
The teacher seemed to hesitate, before gesturing to the lone black car in the staff parking bay.
‘I can give you a lift if you’d like. It’s not exactly my direction, but I’d feel better knowing you both got there safely.’
Abbie was aware she should say no. It would clearly be an imposition on the poor man, who looked absolutely exhausted. And yet the thought of a warm car was too good to resist.
‘That would be amazing.’
‘So who are you visiting?’ the teacher asked, once they were settled in.
‘My boyfriend.’ Abbie grinned. ‘He works in finance with me, but he hasn’t met Spencer yet . . ’
‘He’s the one who doesn’t know you have a son?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But he knows you’re bringing him there tonight?’
‘No. I’m going to surprise him.’
The teacher didn’t bother trying to hide his disapproval. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be best to simply go home?’
Abbie shook her head, reaching to the seat behind where her little boy was already sleeping, and giving him a gentle pat on the leg.
‘No,’ she insisted, as the thought of Marcus’s warm embrace filled her mind. ‘It’s about time he met Spencer. I’m doing the right thing.’
‘If you say so.’ The teacher frowned, deep lines visible across his brow. ‘And what was the address?’
After finding the best route, they began their journey in near-silence, Spencer breathing heavily while Abbie rested her head against the window, watching the blurry haze of streetlights pass by.
It was obvious the teacher didn’t approve, but she didn’t care.
Marcus may have been avoiding her the last few days, but he was probably just nervous about their relationship moving too quickly.
Once she turned up on his doorstep, he would be delighted to see her. Of that, she was certain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A gentle drizzle had started to fall by the time Cindy pulled into the carpark out the back of the red-brick building. It had been nice giving herself the previous day off to recover, and although she was still unwell – the glands of her throat sore and swollen – at least she felt vaguely human.
‘How good of you to join us today,’ Vania greeted her tersely as she entered the office.
Cindy placed a hand on her neck self-consciously. ‘Did Kamaria pass on my message, yesterday?’
‘She said you were ill, yes.’
Hovering awkwardly in front of her boss, Cindy was aware of an odd tension between them. Could Vania really be that angry about her taking a sick day?
‘I’m afraid we need to have a chat.’ Her supervisor’s face was expressionless. ‘Come with me.’
With her bag weighing heavy, Cindy followed Vania into a spare meeting room, where she perched on the edge of a chair, adjusting her blouse, the neckline suddenly seeming uncomfortably tight.
What was happening?
She licked her lips.
She wasn’t the sort of person who got into trouble; had she been out of the workforce that long that she’d broken some unwritten rule?
‘I’ll keep this brief.’ Vania closed the sliding door, and sat down opposite. ‘We’re letting you go.’
‘What?’ Cindy’s stomach dropped.
‘Your performance hasn’t been up to scratch and, as you’re still in your probationary period, we’ve decided it’s best to terminate the contract now.’
Cindy’s mouth turned dry. But her work had been good. Her supervisor had said as much.
‘Has something happened?’ she croaked, painfully aware of tears welling in her eyes.
‘I have become aware of several occasions where your behaviour breached company policy: drinking on the job, for instance.’
‘Drinking on the job?’ Cindy was about to protest, when she remembered happily clinking glasses with her tutor. Had he turned on her?
‘Michael has spoken to you?’
‘He contacted me to raise some concerns – yes.’ Vania kept her gaze on Cindy’s forehead. ‘Working while intoxicated, using company time to socialise, using work equipment for personal engagements . . ’
Cindy shook her head.
‘Are you saying you haven’t done those things?’
‘I . . ’ Her mind was completely blank, any hope of rational discussion obliterated by a burning sense of betrayal. Why would Michael do this to her? Because she’d rejected him? But he’d seemed okay with everything. They’d left on friendly terms, hadn’t they?
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she eventually stammered, feebly. ‘I’d like to stay on – surely we can discuss this further.’
‘We’ll pay you for the rest of the month, of course.’ Vania’s words were flat. ‘But you’ll need to pack up your desk and leave now. I’ll walk you out.’
‘What about all my work? The campaign?’
Vania shrugged. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage with our internal resources for the time being. The designers will look at your photos. Hopefully there’s something there we can salvage.’
Numbly standing up, Cindy headed to her desk, feeling like a million eyes were upon her. Did everyone else know? They must. This was so humiliating.
Under Vania’s watchful gaze, she grabbed the few personal possessions she’d proudly displayed around her desk, clumsily unsticking the photo of Nicholas and Emmett, and doing her best not to cry.
As she walked out, away from the colleagues who would soon be unable to remember her name, she was overcome by a rush of anger.
Michael had only ever recommended her for the job because he’d been interested in her, and now that she’d rejected him, he’d taken it away.
Bastard.
She waited until she was in the car before dialling his number. Her pulse raced as she mentally ran through everything she was going to say. But, of course, her call rang out.
Hanging up, Cindy managed another two blocks before needing to pull over and give in to her tears. She’d been foolish to believe opportunities like this came without a price, and now she was back to nothing. A stay-at-home mother; a wife.
Nothing.
The hallways were empty as Emmett strode towards his office, grateful for the later start, and the time to himself.
He’d sent Steven and Morton back out to St Kilda that morning to continue the search for security footage around the Acland and Robe street areas, now that they had a firm date and time for Natale’s death.
He checked his phone again.
So far there’d been no word from either officer, and Emmett desperately hoped that meant they were having some success.
Settling down at his desk, he flicked on the television that hung above his whiteboard, and scrolled through the channels.
Right now, his homicide colleagues would be fronting the media, releasing the footage of the unknown man at the nursing home, and providing an update on the investigation. It was a job he’d been more than happy to delegate, and one that made him feel increasingly anxious.
Was he sure this was the right move? What if it was a mistake?
After establishing that no news channels were taking the press conference live, he switched the television off. He’d just have to wait.
Retrieving two folders, one for each of the murdered women, Emmett scanned over the notes. He knew the details by heart, but still he read slowly, taking in each fact and considering how it might link to the other victim.
It was after 2 p.m. when the call came.
He’d ignored the incessant ringing at first, presuming Annette would handle it. But when she didn’t, he eventually clambered up, deciding the interruption could be a good excuse to go outside and get a decent coffee.
‘Good afternoon, Missing Persons.’ He leant over the abandoned reception desk and pressed the phone to his ear, realising sheepishly this was the first time he’d ever answered a call to their general number.
It was the company director of DGP Finance, Geoff De Grassi Porteous. That slimy voice.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ the man chuckled. ‘But given what happened to that other bird, I thought you should know . . ’
A strange tightness developed in Emmett’s chest.
‘What is it?’
‘Our receptionist didn’t turn up this morning.’ Geoff paused again, and Emmett imagined the unpleasant man to be patting the rolls of his stomach. ‘I didn’t think too much about it, but Sally was all in a flap – you know how women get.’
‘Right . . ’
‘So anyway, we waited until midday, and then we rang her number to see where she was. No answer.’
‘Okay.’
‘Then we tried the emergency contact that we had on file for her – which was her mother.’
‘And?’ Emmett was struggling to keep the frustration out of his voice – why wouldn’t the irritating man hurry up?
A slight wheezing noise came down the line before Geoff continued.
‘Well, her mother was all flustered, because apparently she was looking after some kid of hers or something, so she went over to her flat to check on her, and she wasn’t there. Then she rang the school the kid attends to make sure the boy had at least been dropped off, but he hadn’t.’
‘I see.’ Emmett tapped the scrap of paper he’d been scribbling on. ‘Is it out of character for her to fail to show for a shift?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ Geoff croaked, before breaking into a hacking cough. ‘She’s only an intern here and, like I said, there’s probably nothing to it, but I just thought . . ’
‘No, I’m glad you phoned.’ Emmett’s mind was starting to race. ‘Can you give me whatever details you have on this woman? And I’ll need the contact for her mother, too.’
After hanging up, Emmett found himself staring blankly at his notes.
He pictured the fancy city office that he’d visited with Bianca, the unappealing director and the overseas investors. Then he remembered Rosemary’s quick exit as she left on her final day, the way she’d seemed so out of place.
As he filled up a thermos with instant coffee from the kitchen, Emmett phoned Bryce. Something about this development was making him panic.
What were the chances of another woman going missing from DGP Finance?
The home of Gloria Knowles was modest, to say the least, and Emmett hesitated as he held the ratty flyscreen open.
‘Thank you for seeing me so quickly.’ He scrunched his nose as he followed the plump woman over a broken tiled step and down a musty hallway.
A heavy aroma of cleaning chemicals hovered over the main living area, and Emmett had to fight the urge to leap to the far side of the room and open a window.
‘You live here with your daughter and son, do you?’
‘No.’ The woman’s tight lips thinned, showing deep lines around her mouth. ‘Her son Spencer lives with me, but Abbie – that’s my daughter – she has a flat nearby.’
‘I see,’ Emmett murmured, not wanting to breathe in too much of the noxious air. ‘And I’m told she failed to show up for her shift at work today. Do you have any idea where she might be?’
Abbie’s mother snorted.
‘She’ll be tangled up with some loser of a man, no doubt. That’s what she always does. I’m not worried about her – she’ll be fine. It’s Spencer I’m concerned about. Why didn’t she take him to school?’
‘You said Spencer is your daughter’s son, and yet he was living here?’
Gloria’s face twitched. ‘Abbie’s not much of a mother. She didn’t want the child interrupting her social life so, yes, I’ve been lumped with him pretty much ever since he was born.’
‘Right.’ Emmett stared at the floor, unsure whether the dull headache that was building was due to the lack of fresh air or the angst of dealing with such a tragic family.
‘Did she have a boyfriend? A partner she might have stayed the night with?’
‘Who knows?’ Abbie’s mother scoffed. ‘She changes men more often than she changes clothes. Probably. But I’d be the last to know.’
‘And what do you know of the finance company where she was working? She was an intern, is that right?’
‘Don’t know anything.’ Gloria shrugged. ‘She should have stuck to cleaning, if you ask me. Always thought she was too good for that, though.’
‘And you’ve obviously tried contacting her?’
‘Yes. The last contact I had was a text message yesterday saying she was on her way to Spencer’s parent–teacher interviews.’
‘Which school does he attend?’
‘North Melbourne Primary.’
Emmett baulked. Nicholas’s school.
‘And I was told you tried going to her flat?’
‘Yeah. She’d left her keys under the gnome out the front like she always does, but she wasn’t there. I went through all the rooms and everything.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Only a couple of hours ago.’
‘Okay.’ Emmett stood up, eager to keep moving. ‘And you’ll be around for the rest of the day, if we need to speak to you further?’
‘Yes, but I have a few cleaning jobs on, and I’m not supposed to take private calls when I’m working. T
he clients pay me by the hour, you see.’
‘I understand.’
After collecting several photographs of the missing woman, Emmett left.
Back in his car he entered the details for DGP Finance into his GPS.
The question in his mind was whether Abbie Knowles was really missing or just escaping her mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Emmett met Steven near the top of Collins Street, the young policeman joining him in his car just in time to catch the end of the 4 p.m. news update on the radio.
‘The man is described as being of Caucasian appearance, with a slim build. Anyone with information is urged to contact Crime Stoppers immediately.’
‘Do you think it’ll get much of a response?’ Steven asked.
‘Hopefully.’ Emmett turned the radio off, before getting out and leading the way towards the street’s grandest Victorian building. ‘But it’s a pretty vague description, isn’t it?’
Taking the elevator to the twelfth floor, they emerged at the empty reception of DGP Finance.
Emmett watched his colleague scan the open-plan workspace, the sterile cubicles, the glass offices and the sharp-looking workers.
‘It’s so . . ’ Steven seemed lost for words.
‘Fashionable? Modern?’
‘No. Cold.’
Emmett chuckled. ‘You and Bianca would get along well.’ He grinned, remembering the homicide detective’s utter loathing for the finance industry.
‘Can I help you?’ A well-dressed woman stopped abruptly in front of them.
‘We’re here to see the company director. He’s expecting us.’
The woman eyed them suspiciously before darting off to the furthest corner.
As if we’d voluntarily spend time here. Emmett shook his head.
‘Detectives.’ Geoff appeared in a slightly creased white shirt, his wide gesture exposing yellow tinges at the armpits. ‘I do hope I’m not wasting your time with all this nonsense. It’s all Sally’s fault, of course.’ He pointed to where a sharp-nosed woman was staring determinedly at her computer. ‘She’s the one who insisted I phone you. I’m sure there’s nothing sinister in all this.’
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