Sticks and Stones

by Katherine Firkin

  ‘Exactly.’ Owen’s lips stretched wide. ‘It felt so good. All those years. All that pain. What she did. Everything just melted away.’

  ‘But why Natale?’ Emmett shuffled forward another inch, so close now he could almost reach out and grab Tom. ‘And Abbie. And your own girlfriend?’

  Owen tilted his head, deep lines creasing his forehead. ‘You don’t know?’ He looked questioningly between the detectives, his expression one of utter disbelief. ‘They were bad women, all of them. I was doing the right thing.’

  Bad women. Emmett’s mind raced as he tried to connect the dots. ‘You coached Natale’s son, Dario, didn’t you?’

  Owen smirked.

  She was certainly eager to cosy up to all of the fathers, the coaches, even the umpires. Emmett remembered what the women at the football club had told Cindy.

  ‘You befriended her. And you met her here too. She told you about her pregnancy. She confided in you.’

  ‘It was like she wanted me to rescue her or something.’ The teacher paused, reaching down to dab Tom’s lower lip, where drool was pooling. ‘And Abbie was a bit of a gift. She just landed in my lap.’

  ‘You thought she was a bad parent?’

  Owen scoffed. ‘Bad? She didn’t deserve to have a child. So I saved him from her.’

  Emmett licked his lips, panic growing. ‘Is Spencer safe? You haven’t harmed him?’

  The teacher sneered. ‘Why would I hurt him? He’s just like I was at that age. Abandoned by his mum, alone.’

  ‘You lost your mother?’ Emmett stalled, desperately hoping the vibrating phone in his jacket pocket signalled the arrival of backup.

  ‘She died when I was five. A junkie, overdosed . . ’ Owen paused, his mouth twisting. ‘I used to worship her, you know? Cried every night for her to come back. Took me years to realise what she actually was – a selfish woman who’d chosen her own short-term pleasure over her child.’

  ‘That sounds very traumatic . . ’ Emmett hesitated. ‘But why Charlotte? You were about to start a family.’

  For the briefest of moments, a flash of regret crossed Owen’s face, before his expression hardened.

  ‘It was her own fault. She’d started going through my bank statements, realised I’d stopped getting rent from the St Kilda flat . . ’

  ‘So, she went over there to see what was going on . . ’ Emmett thought out loud, picturing the scene – the excited woman, thinking she was about to start a family, planning ways they could save for their future.

  ‘That’s right. On the Friday afternoon she rang me saying she was going to confront the tenants. I told her not to; I warned her. But she did anyway. What could I do? I hadn’t cleaned everything up after Natale. She saw too much.’

  Emmett did his best to remain impassive, trying not to picture the bloodied mattress in the bedroom – where at least three of the victims had spent their final, terrifying moments, no doubt.

  ‘But you killed her at your Moonee Ponds property?’

  ‘She rang me all hysterical from the flat so I told her to get out and come home – said I would get the police over to St Kilda straight away.’

  ‘But instead you went home,’ Emmett murmured.

  ‘I had no choice.’ Owen shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to kill her, but I didn’t care too much either. We were only staying together in the hope of a baby – and she couldn’t even give me that.’ The teacher’s bitter words hung in the air, as a small voice rounded the corner.

  ‘Mr Peters?’ A frail child appeared holding a bunch of weeds. ‘I could only find these yellow flowers.’

  Spencer Knowles.

  Emmett gulped.

  ‘That’s fine, Spencer. You’ve done a great job.’ The teacher dropped to one knee, putting his arm around the boy.

  Owen turned to the detectives. ‘Do you know what he told me this morning?’

  Neither Emmett nor Bianca replied.

  ‘That staying with me was the most fun he’d ever had. That he doesn’t want to go home. Isn’t that right, Spencer?’

  The child nodded, but Emmett noticed him look uncertainly to the wheelchair, where Rosemary’s brother was gurgling loudly.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough.’ Bianca suddenly lunged forward, almost grabbing Spencer before Owen tugged him away.

  The teacher rose to his feet, eyes darting around the garden. ‘You leave us alone,’ he hissed, pulling the boy in close. ‘We’re happy now. Leave us.’

  ‘Mr Peters, you know it can’t end like this.’ Emmett tried to calm the situation, but it was too late.

  With one forceful push, Owen sent Tom and his wheelchair flying into Bianca.

  Emmett heard his colleague shout out as she doubled over, but he had to leave her, instead chasing after Owen, who’d hoisted Spencer to his chest, and was now sprinting for the side fence.

  ‘Put the child down!’ he yelled as the teacher scrambled up the wooden panels, Spencer clinging tightly to him with both arms around his neck.

  Owen looked as though he might get away, when he suddenly stopped, straddling the fence awkwardly.

  ‘And just where do you think you’re going?’ a booming voice sounded from the other side of the fence.

  Emmett carefully prised Spencer free from Owen, and passed the shaking boy to Bianca, who had appeared beside him.

  Scaling the fence, he looked down at Morton, whose chubby hands were firmly clamped around the teacher’s right ankle, Steven hovering anxiously nearby.

  ‘Good timing.’ Emmett nearly laughed with relief.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The sound of the bedroom door being gently bumped open, followed by the patter of small feet, caused Emmett to stir. Then there was silence.

  ‘Ow!’ A heavy weight landed plum on his stomach, causing him to lurch upright.

  Nicholas let out a hearty giggle as he bounced up and down. ‘Do you know what today is, Dad? It’s plane-flying day!’

  Emmett rubbed his eyes. ‘Wow.’ He nodded at the unimpressive paper aircraft that was being waggled in his face. ‘It looks great.’

  ‘Let’s go to the park and try it out.’

  ‘Okay . . ’ Emmett jealously regarded Cindy, still submerged deep within the warmth of the sheets, doing her best to ignore the commotion. ‘But why don’t we have breakfast first? I was thinking we could have—’

  ‘Pancakes!’ Nicholas squealed, slotting his little hand into his dad’s, and tugging him to the edge of the bed.

  Emmett laughed. ‘Exactly. Let’s see if we have enough eggs.’

  Downstairs, a great debate ensued about whether chocolate spread, sprinkles or lemon and sugar would be the best topping.

  In the end, Nicholas ended up mixing all three together, and was soon munching away happily.

  ‘These are the best pancakes we’ve ever made!’

  ‘That’s good. When you’re done, why don’t you ask Mum if she wants to come to the park, or if she prefers to stay here?’

  ‘She’ll want to come,’ Nicholas said confidently, before bolting up the stairs and returning only minutes later with a sleepy-looking Cindy.

  As the three of them made their way to the park, Emmett wrapped an arm around his wife, and squeezed his son’s small fingers in his other hand. How odd to think that Owen Peters was waking up after his first night behind bars.

  ‘Do you think we can make my plane fly as high as that bird?’ Nicholas pointed to the sky, where a dark shape was flapping above.

  ‘That’s pretty high, but we’ll do our best.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘It’s not that high. Rocket ships go higher. They go as high as the moon.’

  The park was quiet that morning, and Nicholas was happy to make the most of the free play equipment, quickly giving up on his sad aircraft, and instead charging wildly up the slide before whizzing back down.

  ‘You know you’re meant to take the ladder?’ Emmett yelled out.

  His son ignored him.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Cindy
asked, leaning in to her husband where they were seated on the park bench. ‘Will you need to go back to the office today?’

  ‘Not today.’ Emmett smiled. ‘I’ll have to help prepare the brief for the court case. But I don’t imagine that will be too hard. Owen admitted to everything, and the evidence is solid.’

  ‘I just can’t believe it was him,’ Cindy murmured. ‘Nicholas loved Mr Peters. So did I.’

  ‘I know.’ Emmett thought about the schoolteacher, his angular signature on Nicholas’s glowing report card, matching the indecipherable scribble in the nursing home guest book. ‘It was a bit surreal when we arrested him – I couldn’t stop imagining him playing football with Nicholas.’

  Cindy shivered.

  ‘Those cuts on the women’s bodies that you mentioned, what did they mean?’

  Emmett pressed his lips together, remembering the way Owen’s face had lit up as they’d sat in the small interview room, showing him photographs of the victims’ injuries. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The teacher had beamed, running his left index finger over the pictures.

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Emmett frowned, looking at Nicholas, who was now jumping enthusiastically across a swinging bridge. ‘He kept saying something about a red diamond card, and being a “blood brother”. I couldn’t get him to explain it.’

  Cindy gulped, shaking her head.

  ‘He had a traumatic childhood, though, that much is obvious. Abandoned as a youngster, claims of abuse, socially isolated and passed around between families. He’s already undergone an initial assessment with a psychiatrist, but I imagine we’ll hear more soon.’

  ‘Tragic.’

  ‘Yes . . ’ Emmett stopped, his phone vibrating in his pocket. ‘Hang on, that’s Bryce.’ He stood up, drifting across the playground as he listened to the superintendent.

  When he returned, Nicholas was crying.

  ‘He fell off the swing.’ Cindy shook her head, diligently rubbing the sore knee. ‘All better now?’

  Nicholas pouted, then noticed another boy trying to take claim of the swing, and darted off. ‘Hey,’ his little voice yelled, ‘I was playing on that!’

  ‘Well, that was a miraculous recovery,’ Emmett laughed.

  ‘Quite.’ Cindy chuckled. ‘What did Bryce want? Do you need to go?’

  ‘No.’ He sat back down, next to his wife. ‘He was ringing about the funding cuts – it’s been confirmed my department is getting downsized. I’m going to be redeployed.’

  ‘Redeployed? What does that mean?’ Cindy placed a cautious arm around his shoulders. ‘Back to uniform?’

  ‘No’ – Emmett shook his head, still incredulous – ‘I’ve actually been offered a bit of a promotion – to Detective Leading Senior Constable. And Bryce says there’s room for me in either the Homicide Squad or the Cold Case Unit.’

  ‘Wow!’ Cindy leapt up and kissed him on the forehead. ‘That’s wonderful. What will you choose?’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ Emmett hesitated, his gaze drifting to Nicholas. ‘Both of those roles will likely involve even more time away from home – I’m not sure I want to do that.’

  Cindy opened her mouth to respond, just as Nicholas charged at them.

  ‘Did you see how quick I climbed that rope ladder? I’m much faster than the other kids, don’t you think?’

  Emmett passed his breathless son a water bottle.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve had fun.’

  As they wandered slowly home, Nicholas listed all the activities he’d lined up for the rest of the day. We can play with the building blocks, then we can race my new cars . . set up the train track, maybe paint superhero posters – but you can’t choose Spider-Man because he’s my favourite . .

  ‘That sounds like quite an itinerary.’ Emmett laughed, unlocking the door and letting Cindy go in ahead.

  ‘Dad?’ His little boy grudgingly allowed his muddy shoes to be removed.

  ‘Yes?’

  Nicholas squeezed his arms around Emmett’s thighs.

  ‘I wish you would stay home from work every day.’

  The wardens were nearing the end of their shift, observing the inmates as they walked slowly along the corridors of the maximum- security prison. Some prisoners were sitting in their cells writing letters, others were doing press-ups against their beds or on the floor; at least one was crying.

  It had been a relatively quiet day.

  The usual morning cell inspections had returned very little in the way of drug-related or dangerous contraband, and the prisoners had completed their daily chores – working in the kitchens and factories of the jail – with little fuss.

  ‘The calm before the storm,’ Greg muttered, turning to his colleague Nigel.

  Evenings were always the hardest time in the protection unit. With no activities to occupy them, it was when inmates were most likely to become volatile – and when the wardens were at their most vigilant, stalking the halls and watching for any sudden changes in behaviour.

  They stopped outside cell 238: home to newly arrived prisoner Owen Peters.

  ‘Look at him,’ Nigel said in disgust.

  The man was lying face up on his mattress, sleeping soundly.

  Unlike other inmates, Owen Peters seemed to be in no distress, unintimidated by his new surroundings or peers.

  ‘Wake up, you lazy bastard.’ Greg whacked his baton against the grille of the cell door.

  In front of them, the prisoner shifted slightly, making soft grunting sounds before settling back down again.

  At times they’d seen him hugging his arms over his chest and swaying from side to side, as though a baby being rocked in its mother’s arms. But for the moment he’d returned to lying still, seemingly dreaming peacefully.

  ‘What right does a man like that have to sleep so soundly?’ Nigel shook his head, as they moved on.

  In his dreams, the boy always returned to St Kilda beach, his happy place, where he felt safe. He loved being back there, walking across the dunes and wiggling his toes in the sand.

  Sometimes, on really hot days, he would dash straight to the water’s edge, letting the gentle waves lap at his feet before he waded further in, negotiating his way past the tangled clumps of seaweed, until the water was at his belly button, icy cold. Then he would take the plunge, ducking under the surface and revelling in the sensation of being able to block out the world around him, even if it was only for a matter of seconds.

  On other days he would walk along the pier, watching the seagulls gathering around the fishermen, and feeding off the excitement of the older children as they dived from the edge.

  He loved his trips back to the beach, and it was always a sad reality check when he awoke the next morning, finding himself a long way from home.

  But now, as the boy returned to the beach in his dream state, he knew it was his last visit.

  It was a perfect day, with the waves glistening in the sun, and just the slightest breeze keeping the heat from becoming unbearable. The boy took his time, walking slowly across the sand and making sure to soak in every last detail.

  He felt the tingle of salty sea air on his lips, he watched the children playing in the shallows, and he heard the familiar call of his mother, urging him on.

  Down near the water, the small footsteps that he left were disappearing virtually the moment he made them, the springy, damp sand resisting his imprints.

  Under the pier, the temperature dropped, the shadows almost concealing her shape.

  But the boy saw her at once, slumped against a pole, as she so often was.

  ‘Mum,’ he cried, running over and shaking her gently. ‘Mum, I’m back.’

  His mother’s red eyes took a while to adjust, but then her cracked lips broke into a smile.

  ‘My little one.’

  The boy leant in as he felt her rough hand patting him on the head, heard her croaky voice humming gently, just the way she always had.

  He passed her the needle, watching her eyes light up as she pre
ssed the spiky tip into her skin, her heavy breathing slowing as she relaxed.

  Then he took out his friend’s slinky, the silver coils bouncing playfully in his hands.

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  He waited until she was still, before unbuttoning her shirt, and calmly etching the diamond into her chest.

  When he was done, he snuggled in beside her, inhaling deeply as the comforting scent of death took over.

  He stayed there, pressed against her lifeless body, until the sun disappeared over the water’s edge and darkness began to set in.

  When it was time to go, the boy reached into his pocket and decorated his mother with her new treasures: a wooden bracelet, an intricate silver heart locket, a blue-stoned ring, and a pair of gold earrings.

  He smiled. She would have loved those.

  Then, after one last, long hug, he left, relishing the lightness in his heart as he walked and walked, keeping his gaze firmly on the horizon ahead.

  And when he eventually turned around, the boy could no longer make out the wooden pier, or the woman who was slumped beneath it.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book would never have seen the light of day if it wasn’t for my hardworking agent Jacinta Di Mase, who was so quick to believe in me, right from the first reading of an early draft. From there I will be eternally grateful for my manuscript landing in the hands of Beverley Cousins at Penguin Random House Australia – it’s hard to imagine a more committed publisher to have on your team.

  Throughout the writing process I received a lot of help from members of Victoria Police. In particular I’d like to mention Leading Senior Constable Del King, who spent hours patiently explaining how police might react to various hypothetical situations. Del, your advice and constant optimism kept me going through the many times I felt like giving up. It was heartbreaking to lose you so suddenly in 2018, and I hope I have managed to do some justice to the wealth of information you so generously gave me. A big thank you also to Murray Gregor, whose stories of detective work not only helped with this novel, but have provided me with fodder for many books to come! I am lucky to have someone of your experience to call on, to explain the inner workings of criminal investigations, and, more importantly, to count as a close friend.