Jacquie Cruz hadn’t yet arrived.
Down the rear of the cobbled communal driveway, he found Owen’s flat.
Stepping over the multiple pairs of dirty sneakers – an occupational hazard, no doubt – Emmett knocked firmly on the door.
As he waited, he shifted impatiently from foot to foot.
Could the teacher be asleep? He knocked again.
When there was still no answer, Emmett reluctantly left the front porch, following the property down the side, and noticed there was no car.
He must have left for work already.
A feeling of foolishness overtook him. Nicholas had complained bitterly about his favourite teacher being away the day before, so Emmett had just assumed Owen would be home.
Damn.
He turned to head back, when he noticed the windows all along the wall beside him were slightly ajar.
How odd. He stepped closer.
They were only open a couple of centimetres or so, but it was enough for a would-be thief to leverage further.
Why would Owen have done that?
He followed the windows along to the back, resisting the urge to close them from the outside.
Against the back fence there was a small courtyard with synthetic grass, on which someone had hopefully positioned a plastic cricket wicket, alongside a storage shed. Emmett shook his head as he imagined children trying to play in the tiny space – they’d be better off just heading to one of the public parks nearby.
‘Mr Peters?’ He pressed his face to the gap in the back window on the off-chance the teacher hadn’t noticed his knocking. ‘Are you home?’
He tried again.
‘It’s Emmett Corban – Nicholas’s dad, I just came to . . ’
He stopped, his nose twitching. What is that smell?
He sniffed again. Toxic.
Placing both hands against the glass, he managed to force the window a little further open, so that he could see just inside the back of the house. A worn leather couch was pressed against the wall, a coffee table, spilled wine, a broken vase . .
Emmett felt his skin tingle. Something wasn’t right.
‘Mr Peters!’ he called out, moving to the rear door and knocking loudly. ‘Are you okay?’
He tried the handle. It was locked.
Turning to the courtyard, Emmett looked around for something to use to jimmy the back window fully open. His eyes landed on the shed. Surely Owen keeps some tools in there.
The door was secured by a sliding bolt, but not locked, and Emmett was thankful it opened easily.
What on earth?
He stepped back, clamping a hand over his mouth. The odour escaping from the shed was far worse than whatever chemicals he’d noticed inside the house. It was overwhelming.
Peering into the darkness, it took Emmett a moment to see clearly.
Then his eyes focused on the loop of heavy rope. And the tarpaulin.
His heart stopped.
The blue plastic material was wrapped tightly in a bundle. Just a stray lock of light brown hair could be seen poking out.
It can’t be.
Stepping closer, Emmett crouched on the ground, staying just long enough to be certain of what he was seeing. Then he hurried out, allowing himself a moment to lean against the back fence, doing his best to stifle the insistent gagging reflex in his throat.
Pulling out his phone, he hurried back down the side of the house, almost colliding with the figure rushing towards him.
‘Detective Corban!’ Jacquie’s cheeks were flushed. ‘I thought I heard a noise. What are you doing here?’
‘You won’t believe it,’ Emmett started, unable to accept that what he was about to say was true. ‘You know how you said you’d found out that Charlotte almost made it home, before she disappeared?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well’ – Emmett licked his lips, his mouth utterly dry – ‘it looks like Charlotte did make it home. And then Owen killed her.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
The sirens wailed down the street as the first of many patrol cars arrived, illuminating the block of units with flashing blue and red lights.
Emmett gladly gave up his post at the driveway to two uniformed officers, slumping into the front seat of his car, and closing the door behind him.
He couldn’t believe it.
Owen Peters had killed his girlfriend. And not only that – Emmett pictured the blue tarpaulin – but he appeared to be responsible for the deaths of Rosemary and Natale too.
He shook his head as he remembered the way Nicholas would so eagerly rush to his coach at football practice. Mr Peters, look what I can do . . Mr Peters, kick it to me!
It didn’t seem possible. And where is he now? Emmett wondered as his phone lit up with an incoming call.
‘How’s it going out there?’ Bryce’s voice barked through the car speaker.
‘Fine. Backup has just arrived. They’ll secure the site until forensics are on scene.’
‘Good. I’ve asked Carter and Williams to sit off the front gates of the primary school too. Although the principal has assured us that Peters isn’t there.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Emmett distractedly read a text message that had just popped up. ‘Tardio’s found details of a property in St Kilda which was bought under Owen’s name several years back . . ’ He clipped his seatbelt in. ‘I’m going to meet her there.’
As he wove his way across the city, cutting between lanes and speeding down side streets, Emmett phoned his office.
‘I was just about to call you,’ Ted answered, slightly breathless.
‘Oh?’
‘I put in an urgent request to track Owen’s phone, as you asked—’
‘It’s already done?’ Emmett interrupted, staring at the time on the dashboard. ‘That was quick!’
‘No, the tracking’s not in place yet, but his network provider agreed to send over whatever data they could for the current month. It shows that his phone has been recording movement around St Kilda since Monday night.’
The night Abbie disappeared.
Emmett’s chest tightened, remembering Gloria Knowles’ last communication with her daughter – Abbie had been on her way to the school, for the parent–teacher interviews.
‘But interestingly . . ’ Ted continued, ‘there was no activity that matched the phones of either Rosemary Norman or Natale Gibson – well, not that I can see at first glance, anyway.’
‘Really?’ Emmett frowned. ‘But Charlotte’s body was wrapped in a tarpaulin the exact same way we found Rosemary’s and Natale’s bodies. That information was never released to the public, so unless he’s psychic . . he has to be our man, doesn’t he?’
‘I’m not suggesting he’s not.’ Ted sounded almost defensive. ‘I was just making an observation. And given we know the killer used prepaid handsets to communicate with the first two victims, we can only assume that either he got lazy this time or he wasn’t prepared.’
Emmett pondered this. His homicide colleague might be right. Had Owen’s interaction with Abbie occurred unexpectedly? Or did he just no longer care about getting caught?
‘And there’s one more thing—’ Ted’s voice cut out momentarily as Emmett sped through the Domain Tunnel.
‘Go on,’ he said when he was on the other side.
‘I’ve gone through those old school records that Carter found. Owen Peters was a classmate of Tom Norman’s for several years.’
Emmett felt an icy rush pass through his body. Owen was the boy in the handmade pasta frame.
After ending the call, he checked the GPS, happy to discover the flat he was heading to was around the next corner.
It was only as he pulled up behind Bianca’s car that another worry presented itself.
‘Shit.’ He slammed his hands on the steering wheel, just as his colleague approached the window.
‘What is it?’ she asked, leaning in.
‘I’d completely forgotten. Abbie had her son with her on
the night she disappeared – what’s happened to him?’
Standing out on the street, a few houses back from the looming block of flats, Emmett hugged his arms around his chest.
‘Not the best place to visit in winter, is it?’ Bianca observed, just as another gust of wind struck them, kicking up leaves and bits of dirt.
Emmett rubbed his eyes. In truth, he didn’t really understand the attraction of St Kilda at any time of year. The beach precinct was far too crowded, and littered. And the trendy cafes that filled the shopping strips were ludicrously overpriced.
‘So what do we know about this property, then?’ he asked.
Bianca pulled up the details on her phone. ‘These were all government commission housing back in the seventies and eighties, until the land was bought by a developer, who had intentions of developing luxury beachside condos. It seems he ran into financial strife and had to sell off each flat individually for whatever he could.’
Emmett looked at the rundown block, so different from the glistening new apartment tower where Marcus Weighton lived, just a few streets along.
‘And Owen Peters bought one of these?’
‘In 2017 a purchase was made under his name.’
‘All right.’ Emmett started walking, nodding to the two occupants of the unmarked police car parked directly opposite. ‘Let’s see if anyone’s home.’
Their feet clanged noisily as they climbed the metal stairwell.
Number 16.
Emmett pressed his ear against the wooden door.
‘I’ll check the perimeter . . ’ Bianca shuffled along the narrow walkway, disappearing around a corner.
She returned moments later, shaking her head.
‘From what I can see there’s no other exit. Although that front window isn’t locked.’
Emmett looked where his colleague was indicating, his stomach sinking as he saw the deliberate gap that had been left, a few centimetres wide.
Not a good sign.
Knocking firmly on the door he waited only moments before marching to the front window and sliding it open.
‘Urgh.’ Bianca made a gagging gesture, before tugging her jacket up and over her mouth. ‘That smell . . ’
‘Wait here.’ Emmett hoisted one leg through the opening, finding himself balancing awkwardly on a small kitchen benchtop. ‘Hello?’ he called out, not expecting a reply.
The noxious stench intensified as he moved into a narrow hallway.
Resting his right hand protectively over his gun holster, he stepped over discarded socks, a scrunched newspaper and several empty cans of beer.
The door to the left was ajar.
Holding his breath, Emmett gave it a nudge, hanging back in case anyone should suddenly confront him.
But there was nothing, just that sickly smell growing ever stronger.
He flicked a light switch.
‘All okay?’ he heard Bianca call out.
He opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again, unable to find the words.
The mattress that lay on the floor was heavily stained – a mixture of blood and faecal matter, he presumed. But it was the platinum blonde strands of hair that upset him the most, caught in a length of rope discarded on the floor.
Numbly, he headed back to the hallway, where he stood at the entrance to the last remaining room.
He placed a palm on his chest, his pulse racing. He knew what lay inside.
Three, two, one . . The white door swung inwards.
Sure enough, there was Abbie, her body lying naked in the bathtub, her vacant eyes staring up at the old showerhead.
Careful not to disturb the pile of clothes left on the dirty tiled floor, Emmett bent down, his throat catching as he took in the freshly cut scars on her abdomen – a glistening bloody diamond.
But what was that hanging around her neck? He crouched lower, staring at the silver coil in disbelief.
It was a child’s slinky toy – just like the one Nicholas had found hidden at the bottom of his Santa Sack last Christmas. The steel wire that isn’t perfectly flat.
‘You okay?’
Emmett stood up, surprised to find Bianca’s reflection staring back at him from the cracked mirror above the basin.
Outside, he slumped sadly on the metal staircase as his mind raced. Rosemary, Natale, Charlotte, Abbie . . four women left with gruesome cuts on their chests. What does it all mean?
On the street below, he could see Bianca instructing the plainclothes officers, one hand wildly pointing to the flat on the fifth floor, while the other kept a phone glued to her ear.
Emmett consciously slowed his breathing.
Abbie Knowles is dead. But where is her son? And where is Owen Peters?
He was watching his colleague marching back up the stairwell when the answer came to him.
‘I’ve spoken to the superintendent,’ Bianca started, about to join him on the steps, ‘and there are more patrol units on the way—’
‘We have to move.’ Emmett leapt past her, keeping one hand on the railing as he skipped down the steps.
‘What?’ Her voice trailed behind. ‘Move where?’
But Emmett didn’t stop to explain, instead running to his car and indicating furiously for Bianca to get in.
Starting the ignition, he tugged at his seatbelt while swerving aggressively away from the kerb.
‘What’s got into you?’ Bianca placed a steadying hand on the glove box in front of her as they veered jerkily across two lanes. ‘Where are we going?’
Emmett pressed his lips together and stared resolutely forward.
‘Tom’s nursing home,’ he eventually said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The morning manager was leaning over the front counter when they arrived, chatting to the receptionist.
‘Detectives.’ He swung his arms wide. ‘Back to see Mr Norman, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ Emmett had to resist the temptation to push past the frustrating man. ‘Is he by himself?’
‘No, I think he has a visitor at the moment, doesn’t he, Margaret?’
‘That’s right.’ The receptionist beamed. ‘They were out near the rose garden, last I checked. Would you like me to take you through?’
‘No, we’ll be fine.’ Emmett felt his shoulders rise. He’s here.
They phoned for backup on the way to Tom’s room, peering through the small window when they got there.
‘Empty,’ Bianca sighed, turning the handle anyway.
Emmett’s eyes immediately fell on the bedside table, where shiny new items were proudly displayed.
‘More trophies,’ he whispered, pointing to two gold hoops. ‘I wonder if they belonged to Charlotte or Abbie.’
He shivered, letting his gaze drift upwards to the bookshelf, where two bright-eyed boys stared out from the gold pasta frame. Tom and Owen, so happy together.
Hurrying past the main dining room, in which several residents were busy tackling a late breakfast, they unbolted an emergency exit and followed a gravel path around the side of the property to the rear gardens.
‘There he is,’ Emmett whispered.
In the distance, beyond the vegetable patch and its few sad sprouts, were two men sitting side by side, gazing out at the bare rose garden.
Bianca hesitated. ‘Carter and Williams shouldn’t be far off.’ She checked her phone. ‘Perhaps we should wait?’
Emmett frowned, unable to take his eyes off the two figures in the garden. On the left, Owen was gesturing animatedly, while Tom, in his wheelchair, leant in, his head drooping so low that it almost rested on his friend’s shoulder, the damaged men such a stark contrast to the happy boys who’d grinned out from their childhood photo.
Who would have ever predicted such a life of loss, and horror?
‘We still don’t know where Abbie’s son is,’ he muttered to Bianca. ‘We don’t have time to wait for the others.’
Shuffling forward, they were soon close enough to hear Tom’s soft gargles as t
he men chatted quietly – understanding each other perfectly.
‘Owen Peters?’
The schoolteacher spun around, his eyes flashing from one detective to the other.
‘What do you want?’ he snarled.
Emmett’s fingers hovered over the top of his gun holster. ‘I’ll need you to come with us.’
For a moment, it seemed Owen was considering making a run for it, then his panicked expression suddenly changed to a smirk.
‘Oh, come on, detective,’ he sneered, swivelling the wheelchair around so that Tom was between him and them. ‘What’s the rush?’
Emmett held his breath, looking from the flailing movements of Rosemary’s brother to the manic gleam on the schoolteacher’s face.
‘I know you’d never want to harm Tom.’ He raised his hands, gingerly taking a step forward. ‘So why don’t you come with us to the station, and we can talk calmly.’
Owen grinned. And then laughed.
‘You’d like to know why I did it, I suppose?’
‘That would be a start.’ Emmett took another step forward. ‘I know you and Tom were friends at school, and that you blamed Rosemary for the car crash . . ’
The teacher scowled. ‘She stole him from me.’ The knuckles gripping Tom’s wheelchair turned white. ‘He was the only friend I ever had. And she took him.’
Emmett nodded, aware Bianca was slowly shifting to the side.
‘Why now?’
Owen’s eyes welled up. ‘I saw the article in the paper, so I came straight away. I couldn’t believe Tom had been living just near me this whole time – or the state that he was in.’ He paused, his whole face contorting. ‘And she was here, the day I came to visit. She had the nerve to sit here with him, babbling about her stupid holidays while he spends day after day trapped in this chair. I knew I had to make her pay.’
‘So, what did you do?’ Emmett’s tone softened.
‘I told her who I was, said I had lots of photos from our childhood that I was collating for his birthday, asked if she wanted to see them.’
‘And she came to visit you in St Kilda . . ’
Sticks and Stones Page 31