MISSING
MISSING
MELANIE
CASEY
First published in 2016 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
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For Grandma
Sorry, this one’s not a romance either…
Books by Melanie Casey
Hindsight
Craven
Missing
On any given night
one person in every 200 is homeless.
www.homelessnessaustralia.org.au
Contents
Part I Give us this day our daily bread
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II Lead us not into temptation
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART III Deliver us from Evil
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Melanie Casey
PART I
Give us this day our daily bread
PROLOGUE
‘Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly,
’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.
Oh no, no, said the little Fly, to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair
can ne’er come down again.
Mary Howitt, 1829
Icy fingers clawed through Len’s shirt to the tender flesh below, as his coat flapped wildly in the wind. He shivered, and tugged the thin material around him. He’d been lulled by the transient warmth of the midday sun, but the autumn nights were getting colder.
He stepped into a doorway, trying to find shelter. Movement from the shadows startled him. Someone was already huddled in the small space. He moved back out into the laneway and walked on, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself in an effort to preserve body heat. A slow drizzle began, dropping the temperature another few degrees. Where did people go on nights like this? An image of the Morphett Street Bridge popped into his head. He’d be able to huddle underneath it and stay dry. He picked up his pace, keen to find shelter.
Ten minutes later he was following the narrow steps down the bank of the Torrens River. He peered into the space under the bridge. Again, he wasn’t alone — figures pressed around an old drum. Flames licked at their outstretched hands, making wild shadows dance against the graffitied walls. Len’s first impulse was to turn and leave, but the rain was falling harder and he didn’t want to step back out into the cold night. He approached slowly, aware of the eyes trained in his direction. Their owners all wore a kind of uniform: layers of oversized clothing, the original colours caked in dirt or leached out with age. Len’s clothes were too new, too bright, they fit too well. The figures shuffled, eyes raking him up and down.
‘Can I join you?’ he asked.
There were five of them. Four turned to the fifth, seeking his approval. He was wearing a heavy coat with the hood pulled up, shrouding his eyes so his only distinguishable feature was a tatty brown beard that hung onto his chest.
‘Suit yourself.’
The other four shifted around, making a small gap for him. He stepped into it, not sure if the people beside him were men or women, and not keen to look too closely. He realised as he moved closer that there was a grate over the drum with something cooking on top. The smell of roasting meat assaulted his nostrils and saliva flooded his mouth.
‘That smells good. What is it?’
No one answered. Bushy-beard reached out and turned the meat with a stick.
‘If you’re going to make it out here, you need to learn not to ask questions. It’s meat, that’s all that matters.’
One of the others began to laugh, a nervous, high-pitched giggle.
‘Shut up!’ Bushy-beard snarled. ‘You want to eat, you have to trade for it. Got anything valuable?’
Len had some change in his pocket but was reluctant to part with it. There was also his watch. He tugged down the sleeve of his jumper. The watch had been a gift from his wife. He looked around the circle, their eyes fixed on him again, scanning his clothes, his shoes. They were hungry eyes. He lifted his gaze to the night sky. The rain had stopped.
‘Thanks for the warmth but I don’t have anything to t
rade. I’ll be on my way.’ He turned on his heel and walked away. The high-pitched giggle followed him. He was almost at the stairs when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Shocked, he tried to pull away. The fingers gripped him tighter, bruising his skin.
‘Nice watch you’ve got there. I’d be happy to trade it for some of our food.’
His face was masked by shadow, but it had to be Bushy-beard. Len could smell him. His malodorous breath was blended with stale body odour and damp, mouldering fabric.
Len half turned, trying to twist out of the man’s grasp. ‘It was a gift. I don’t want to trade it.’
‘I wasn’t asking.’ Bushy-beard held up his hand, the other still gripping Len’s shoulder. A long, wicked-looking carving knife gleamed faintly in the dim light. The man smiled cruelly and laughed, but his laugh quickly descended into a hacking cough and his grip loosened.
Len seized the moment. He yanked the hand off his shoulder, raking his nails across flesh as he did so. Bushy-beard yelped and swore, lashing out with the knife, but Len was too quick. He leapt backwards then spun and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ran until his chest was heaving and his lungs were burning. Halfway up Montefiore Hill, he looked over his shoulder. No one was following him. He stopped, waiting for his heart to stop pounding like a sledgehammer. After a minute or two he began to walk, heading slowly up the hill.
The wind whipped up again, tree branches groaning and leaves dropping onto the path. The musky odour of damp earth and rotting vegetation filled the air. He moved quickly, puffing clouds of steam as he slogged up Morphett Street towards North Adelaide. Maybe he’d find a park somewhere to take shelter in.
By the time he reached Wellington Square he was wrecked. A park bench beckoned. He sank onto it and shut his eyes, trying to remind himself why this had seemed like a good idea.
He peered at the face of his watch, struggling to make out numbers in the gloom. Just after eight. It seemed a lot longer than eight hours since he’d left the house. What had passed for lunch was a distant memory. Some fruit and a bag of nuts from the pantry, not exactly a feast. There’d been no time to grab anything more substantial, and he hadn’t been able to work out where Beth had stashed his wallet. He fingered the coins in his pocket, the entire contents of the change jar in the kitchen — about ten bucks worth of silver. It wasn’t going to get him very far.
His backside was going numb. He moved along the park bench, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He ended up trading the warmth of the patch he’d been sitting on for ice-cold wood a few inches further along. His teeth chattered.
He couldn’t stay where he was. Lights from the pub across the square glowed through the darkness. He had enough money for a schooner and a bag of chips. It would get him out of the cold, at any rate.
The door swung open as he approached and a couple of young blokes in suits pushed their way out into the night, laughing at a shared joke. A whoosh of warm air fragrant with the smell of beer and deep-fried food followed them. Len’s stomach rumbled. He stepped inside, letting the waves of sound and heat wrap around him before heading to the front bar.
He spotted an empty stool tucked up next to the wall and made a beeline for it, shedding his jacket along the way. The barmaid was young, probably not much past twenty. She wore a tight black t-shirt and black pants, her blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail. She had piercings in her nose and right eyebrow. A large tattoo of a pair of cherries nestled just under her left ear, as if they were earrings. Why cherries? Len watched her, trying to imagine her as a sixty-year-old woman with the cherries tucked away in her neck folds. It took her a good while to make her way to him along the bar.
‘What’ll you have?’
Her tone was friendly enough, but her look said otherwise. Her eyes were flat and a slight curl to her lip told him he’d failed her respectability test.
As she moved away to get his schooner and chips, he caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was sticking up, his collar was crooked and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his singlet beneath. No wonder she’d given him a look. He straightened his clothing and tried to pat his hair into something resembling normal. He looked like a vagrant. The thought made his gut churn. Was that what he was now?
The barmaid returned a minute later and plonked a coaster and a beer in front of him then snatched a bag of plain chips and a bowl off the shelves behind her and dumped them next to the beer. The plastic bowl rattled on the counter as it spun a couple of times before settling into place.
‘That’s eight dollars fifty.’
‘Eight-fifty? Really?’
She didn’t answer him, just stood there, giving him the same flat look. He fumbled in his pocket for his change and counted out the coins. A hot flush crept from under his collar and spread up his neck until he could feel the tips of his ears glowing red.
When he was done, the barmaid scooped up the pile and turned away. He didn’t need to look at her to know what expression she’d be wearing.
The first mouthful of beer was enough to banish her from his thoughts. It’d been a long time since he’d had a beer. He wasn’t allowed to drink; apparently it was bad for his health. Living in that house had been bad for his health too. How could Beth expect him to stay locked away like that?
Would she be worried about him? Probably. And mad as hell, but she had left him no choice. He took another draught of beer, feeling it slide down his throat. The unopened chip packet demanded his attention. He ripped open the foil and tipped the contents into the bowl before grabbing a huge handful and stuffing them into his mouth. Chips. When was the last time he’d had chips? Beth’d say they had too much fat …
Twenty minutes later, the bowl was empty except for a few crumbs and he was nursing the last two centimetres of beer in the bottom of his glass, reluctant to finish it. He didn’t have enough for another glass and the prospect of swapping the warmth of the bar for the freezing park bench … he couldn’t face it.
He fumbled with the few remaining coins in his pocket. He had enough to make a phone call. Did they still have pay phones in pubs? He looked around, then gave himself a mental slap. Surely he could survive for more than nine hours on his own? He couldn’t go running back to Beth with his tail between his legs. The repercussions would be dreadful. He could already hear the tirade, and the chances of him ever getting hold of the key again … no. This was his only shot at getting away.
A voice made him look up from the contents of his glass.
‘You look like you’ve had a tough day.’
The bloke was standing behind the bar, watching him. Len shook his head, worried he was about to be fast-tracked back to the park bench.
The barman pulled another schooner and put it in front of Len. ‘This one’s on me. I own this place.’
‘Thanks,’ Len mumbled, lifting the glass in salute.
‘You’re welcome. And if you need it, here’s a card for a hostel just around the corner. Woman who runs it’s supposed to be a legendary cook.’
Len looked down at the card then opened his mouth to respond, but the barman had moved away to serve someone else. Len looked back at the card. A hostel. The thought wasn’t appealing, but neither was a night freezing to death in the park.
Len stamped his feet and jogged up and down on the spot, trying to force the ice from his veins. Stepping out of the pub and into the night had been brutal. The temperature felt like it’d dropped ten degrees in an hour. How did people live on the streets? Len couldn’t imagine surviving even one night without shelter, and it wasn’t even winter yet.
He reached out and rang the bell again then looked nervously at the card in his hand, squinting at the address in the shadows. It was too dark to read.
He looked up at the bank of windows above his head. The building was a large, two-storey Edwardian with wooden fretwork and a bullnose veranda. The tiles below his feet had been intricately
laid in the mosaic pattern popular in the era. He wondered how such a stately home had become a hostel — assuming he had the right place. Was this the right place? There was no sign out the front, but large brass numbers fixed to the sandstone wall told him this was it.
He strained his ears, listening over the din of wind and passing cars for sounds of movement inside. Nothing. It must be the wrong place. With chattering teeth he turned and headed back towards the gate. As he reached to pull it open, he heard the rattling of a lock. With a surge of hope he turned towards the light now spilling from the open front door.
‘Lockout is 9pm,’ a female voice said.
‘Sorry?’ Len walked towards the voice, squinting into the light, painful after the gloom.
‘I lock the doors at nine. You’re too late for tonight, come back tomorrow and try again,’ she said.
‘Tomorrow? But what am I supposed to do tonight? It’s only a little bit past nine. Please?’ He realised he sounded pathetic, but the prospect of being turned away felt like a physical blow.
The woman was probably in her sixties. She had iron-grey hair pulled back into a bun and gold-framed reading glasses that sat well down on her nose and were secured by a pink plastic chain looped around her neck. She was short, no more than five-foot-two, with a stocky barrel-build dominated by an impressive bust. A half-apron was tied around her waist.
The woman sighed.
‘I’m sorry, we’re full tonight. I always have a queue waiting when I open the doors at 5.30pm. Most of my regulars know not to bother this late. You’re new around here.’
Len nodded, thinking of the wasted hours he’d spent wandering.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you don’t look like you’ve been living rough. You look too well fed and healthy. Isn’t there someone you can call? You can use my phone.’
An image of a glowering Beth flashed through Len’s mind. He shook his head. ‘No, no one. Thanks anyway.’ He turned away.
Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3) Page 1