by PD Martin
‘Thanks.’ Darren hesitates, and I know why. He’s waiting for the right moment to say “Sorry about what’s happened”, but it’s too big a thing to simply say as you’re walking up a driveway.
‘I’ve set you up in the guest room.’
My brow furrows. ‘What?’ I shoot Mum a look and then see the big grin on her face.
‘I’m joking, of course.’ Mum hardly ever tries humour. Partly because when she does, it rarely succeeds. This one was a little better than a total belly flop, but only a little. She keeps us moving. ‘Darren probably wants a shower first, darling. Before we sit down?’
‘I know, Mum.’
Mum turns to Darren. ‘Make yourself at home, Darren. And take your time…we’ll catch up soon enough.’
‘Thanks. A shower would be real nice.’
As far as I’m concerned, a shower is an essential and first part of any jetlag recovery plan, especially when you’re talking about sitting on a plane for the best part of twenty-four hours.
I lead Darren down the hall to my bedroom. It still feels a little strange being in my family home as an adult. It’s not like my room’s pink with Barbie dolls everywhere—I’ve even got a double bed. But it still makes me feel like a little girl. And it’ll be even stranger to have Darren lying in bed next to me tonight.
‘Here you go, then.’ Dad leaves the bag in the doorway. I’d forgotten he was behind us.
‘Thanks.’
Darren manoeuvres one bag into the corner and heaves the other one on top of the bed. Opening it up, he takes out a bath bag. ‘Should I keep growing it?’ He rubs his jaw line.
‘Nah. Too scratchy.’
‘A beard doesn’t suit me, anyways.’ He takes his razor and shaving foam out of the bag.
I’ve never seen Darren with more than a five o’clock shadow, but I can’t imagine him with any kind of serious facial hair—full beard or goatee.
‘Here you go.’ I hand him the dark blue towel Mum had put on the bed early this morning. ‘And just use whatever soap or shampoo you want in the bathroom. Mum and Dad have an en-suite, so it’s all my stuff or guest stuff.’
I take him through to the bathroom down the hallway, and once he’s in the shower, I join Dad at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee and the day’s paper. Dad hands me the business section of The Age and I hand him the front pages from the table—an exchange we’ve done many times over the years. Characteristically, Mum is in the kitchen.
Before I actually start reading the paper, I check my phone again. Nothing. Even though it’s not even 10am, I’ve already checked it five times, thinking maybe I’d somehow missed the call from Lily Murphy…but so far nothing.
‘What are you making, Mum?’
‘Scones.’
‘Yum.’ Mum’s scones are to die for.
‘You think Darren will like them?’
I raise my eyebrows. Good question. ‘Scones aren’t big in America, Mum. But I can’t see how anyone could resist your scones with homemade raspberry jam and cream.’
‘Thanks, darling.’
I give her a little nod, knowing Mum likes to care for people with food. Even in these circumstances there’d be a part of her that wanted to welcome Darren with a big home-cooked meal. She’s got to wait a few hours for that, so scones will suffice in the meantime.
Darren doesn’t take long to shower, shave and dress and when he emerges somewhat hesitantly he looks more like the Darren I know—clean-shaven, dark hair a little neater and a little…perkier.
‘I followed the voices.’ He grins.
‘Sorry. I’ll give you a quick tour before we sit down to some of Mum’s home baking.’ Not that our house is huge, but it’s always a little awkward wandering around a house you don’t know.
‘Sounds good. Home baking…I’m still pretty full from the cardboard aeroplane food.’ He pats his belly.
I take his hand. ‘I’m sure you can find room.’
We quickly move through the house, and by the time we get back to the kitchen, the aroma is starting to spread from the kitchen to the hallway.
‘Smells good, Mum.’
She peers in the oven. ‘Almost done. Who’s for coffee?’
Darren, Dad and I give an enthusiastic yes.
I’m about to sit down when my phone rings. I snatch it from my pocket. Private number. ‘This could be Lily Murphy,’ I say before answering the phone. ‘Sophie Anderson.’
‘Hi, Soph. It’s Lily.’
‘Hi.’ I move out of the kitchen/living area and into the study. ‘How’d you go?’
‘I just heard back from New Zealand. No murders that match our timeframes or profile, and only three missing boys that fit our criteria.’
‘Three? Not very many to cover 1981 to 2007.’
‘No. Especially given they had one in 1981 and two in 1982.’
‘What?’ I sink into the leather desk chair. ‘Man, this is confusing.’
‘I know.’
‘And they’re sure?’
‘The guy checked it several times, going out of the ViCLAS system and into the old hard copy files on missing kids.’
I blow out some air. ‘So where to from here?’
Lily lets out a sigh, too. ‘Asia, I guess. See if we can’t account for those missing years. I’ve also asked my NZ contact to check the prison records.’
I nod. ‘In case he was incarcerated over there.’
‘Uh huh. And if there really is a gap and no prison time or overseas activity to account for it, we have to consider a perp who had some sort of debilitating injury but has recovered.’
‘Mmm…but what?’
‘Coma?’
I bite my lip. ‘A long time to spend in a coma and then suddenly come out of it.’
‘Yes, but it has happened. And then there’s our two-person theory, with the dominant personality dying and the submissive recently finding a new recruit.’
‘I’ve got another possibility. What if the time gap is because he was better? Maybe our perpetrator has got multiple personality disorder and between 1982 and 2007 he was on meds that kept the alters at bay.’
‘MPD…I know it looks good on TV, but I’ve never come across it before.’
‘Me neither. But my boyfriend has.’
‘Your Yank?’
‘Uh huh. He just flew in.’
‘What was the case?’
‘Rape. The rapist was the core personality but he was caught through a remorseful alter.’
‘Mmm…I guess we need to flag it as a possibility.’
‘Agreed,’ I say.
Silence for a few beats before Lily takes a deep breath. ‘I need to give you a heads up, Soph.’
‘Uh huh.’ It can only be Faulkner. Or maybe something to do with John. Like an exhumation. My stomach flips at the thought.
‘This morning Faulkner told me to say hello to you.’
My body relaxes—Faulkner I can deal with. ‘So he knows we’re working together.’
‘Process of elimination, I suppose. Despite my denial, he either knows or suspects it was me who told you about Curtis Baker.’
‘Don’t worry, Lily. I can handle Faulkner.’
‘Well, tread lightly. For all our sakes.’
I get the message loud and clear—it’s not just me on the line here. Pushing my way into this case may mean that Victoria Police would never hire me again. But that’s fine…I like LA. Lily, on the other hand, doesn’t have many career options. If Faulkner had the contacts to get the head of Homicide gig, who knows what else he’s capable of. At the very least he could make her life hell, and he may be able to push her out altogether.
‘I understand, Lily. And I really appreciate what you’re doing. For me and my family.’
‘At least one person in this equation’s happy.’
‘I’m sorry, Lily. Sorry to put you in this position, but I can’t just sit on the sidelines.’
‘I know. And that’s why I’m keeping you in the loop.’
‘Not yet. But I’m still working on it. Actually, I’ve got a list of questions to ask you. Want them over the phone now or I can email them through.’
I think about Darren and my parents waiting for me. ‘Send them through. You’ve got my Hotmail account?’
‘Sure. And the computer techs are finished with Ted Strawasky’s computer. Nothing. It doesn’t look like our perp contacts them online. At least he didn’t in the case of the Strawasky boy.’
Another dead end.
After I thank her again for sticking her neck out for me, we hang up and I sit in the study chair, rocking back and forth slightly, focusing on the New Zealand connection. Our guy must have been in New Zealand from 1981 to 1982, but then what happened to him? I stare vacantly at the painting on the wall, an ugly bushland scene. I don’t like the painting—it’s old-fashioned and the scenery turns my stomach. The Australian bushland holds nothing but pain and suffering for me. Nothing but thoughts of John and his killer.
I take a deep breath and move back into the hallway. I’m about to join the others when the sound of my name stops me in my tracks. Hovering in the doorway, I listen.
‘That’s what you’ve got to understand about Sophie.’ Mum’s hand is on top of Darren’s. ‘That monster…he didn’t just take our son from us, Darren. He took a piece of our daughter, too.’
Chapter 10
I hit send on the email to Lily Murphy, hoping we’ve covered everything. It was difficult to remember my activities and schedule from when I was eight years old and I imagine the other sisters have had a similar experience. Still, with the help of mum and dad I was able to answer all of Lily’s questions, most of which centred on my school and after-school activities. So, will Lily discover that all sisters attended ballet classes at Somers Dance School? Or maybe we crossed the killer’s path during a family holiday or outing around that time. We included everything we could think of, even the fact that John and I used to swim in the neighbour’s dam—not that I think that’s relevant. I’d also desperately tried to remember if I’d noticed anything odd around that time—a stranger watching us, a man asking me questions about John. It felt strange looking back at those few weeks and questioning everyone and everything. Even neighbours, relatives and friends were under scrutiny…all suspects in my mind. But if something happened, I can’t remember it.
‘Done?’ Darren’s sitting in an armchair in the study, looking exhausted.
‘Uh huh.’ I stare out the window. ‘I want to catch the guy, no matter what, but this…’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t know if I could cope if he found John through me.’
Darren’s silent for a bit, and then says, ‘I know it’s clichéd, but let’s cross that bridge if or when we come to it, huh?’
I take a deep breath and blow it out, purposely diverting my gaze from the painting of the bush.
‘So…you ready?’
Another deep breath on my part. ‘We’ll go later. I think we should study the files first.’
‘Come on, Soph. You can’t avoid it forever.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t go, Darren. I just can’t.’ I stand up and walk over to the window.
Soon Darren’s arms are around me. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better. Did you ever consider that?’
‘Better? I doubt it.’ I lean back into him.
‘It might help to induce a vision.’
I shake my head again. ‘I can’t face him. Not until we’ve got this monster.’
Darren’s quiet but his arms squeeze a little harder. ‘Okay. I get it.’
‘I’ll go after…as soon as we’ve got this bastard I’ll visit John’s grave. And then I can tell him it’s finally over.’
‘What if we don’t get him?’ Darren whispers quietly, barely able to voice it.
‘We’ll get him. I can…feel it.’
‘Is that normal cop instincts or something more?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’ God I hope it’s an honest gut feeling, or my gift. Otherwise it’s nothing more than blind hope. Now this has all been stirred up again, I don’t think I could cope if the guy slipped through our fingers. I shudder at the thought.
‘Cold?’ Darren snuggles into my neck.
‘No. Just…’ I turn around and look into Darren’s eyes. ‘Maybe I am deluding myself. It’s been thirty years, what if we still can’t find this guy?’
‘Trust your instincts, Soph.’ He runs a hand along my jaw. ‘They’re pretty good, you know.’
I sigh. ‘Not when it comes to John.’
Silence.
I notice the dark circles under Darren’s eyes. ‘You look tired, Darren. Do you want a rest?’
His face scrunches. ‘Is that a good idea? Shouldn’t I keep in this time zone?’
Morning tea and going through Lily’s questions has taken us the better part of three hours but it’s still early. ‘You could have a quick nap now. Better to have a sleep and make it through until nine or ten tonight than to crash at six.’
He nods. ‘Okay. But wake me up in an hour and a half and then we’ll go through the case files together.’
‘Deal.’
Once Darren’s settled in my room, I head back into the living room.
‘Mum, where are our old photo albums?’
‘Of John, you mean?’
I gulp and nod. I don’t know if Mum ever looks at them, but I don’t. The pictures around the house are enough for me.
‘Sit down, honey. I’ll get them for you.’
I grab a glass of water and wait at the kitchen table. Darren’s right—maybe bringing up John and that painful part of my past will trigger a vision. And I need to do anything and everything I can to bring my brother’s killer to justice.
A few minutes pass before Mum appears with four large photo albums in her arms.
I jump up. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’ll help.’ I take the top two off the pile and together we bring them back to the kitchen table.
‘Are you hoping to find something in here?’ Mum looks sadly at the albums. Her boy’s life, now only snapshots.
‘Not really. I’m actually hoping to induce a vision.’
She runs her hand through my hair.
Since Mum’s revelation around her knowledge of the family’s gift, we’ve spoken about it a few times but I have to confess I haven’t been exactly forthcoming. Even after all these years it still seems flaky to talk about it. I’m much happier in the world of police procedures, forensics and, of course, profiling. Some cynics feel profiling is subjective mumbo jumbo, but there’s an objective and scientific structure behind it. My gift, on the other hand, is still a leap of faith that I sometimes have trouble making sense of.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ Mum asks.
‘Not really.’
She nods, a little disappointed. ‘A snack or drink perhaps?’
I smile. ‘I’m fine, Mum.’
She nods. ‘This is the first album. We’ve got more photos, of course. But I had to cull…at the time I didn’t realise…’
I bite my lip. ‘How could you, Mum?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Your Dad and I looked at these a few days ago. After the police told us.’ She sinks into the chair. ‘He was so young, such a beautiful young boy. He’d be forty-one now.’
I grimace. I rarely think of John as anything but a kid. In fact, the only time I think of him as anything but eleven is on his birthday. But I can never picture him as an adult.
‘Do you think about him much, Mum?’
She puts her hand on mine. ‘Every day. I say good morning to him as soon as I wake up and goodnight before I go to bed.’
I think about the photo of John on Mum’s dresser and imagine her talking to our John, and a tear trickles down my face.
‘I’m going to find whoever did this, Mum. I’m going to…’ I want to say kill him. That’s what I feel, but instead I say, ‘…make sure he
pays.’
She nods slowly. ‘I know that’s important to you, darling. But not to me.’
‘How can you say that, Mum?’ Part of me wants her to fight harder, be more consumed with rage. But maybe it’s just not in her.
‘I’ll be happy if or when you find this monster. But I won’t be happy for me or John. Nothing can bring John back, Sophie. I’ll be happy for you, because I know how important it is for you. And I’ll be happy for the other boys and mothers who’ll be spared what we went through.’
‘I just…I don’t understand. Don’t you want revenge?’
She strokes my hair, her calmness a stark contrast to my bubbling rage. ‘We’re different, Soph. I let go of my anger a long time ago.’
‘So you did feel it?’
‘Of course, darling. But you were my baby girl…you were eight. I couldn’t show you then. And now…the anger’s gone. As I hope it will be for you one day. Hopefully soon.’
‘I don’t think I can do this now, Mum.’ I glance down at the photos. ‘I just feel so…’
‘You’re upset. You’re mad. Flick through the albums, darling. You never know, they might cheer you up. It’s not all negative—we still have these photos, and our memories of him.’
I want to protest, but she’s gone before I can say or do anything. Leaning back in the chair I look at the four albums spread out on the table. They’re all the same dark blue and on the front of each one is a small plate, engraved with our surname and the year range the album covers. I’m about to flip open the first album when my phone beeps. Lily Murphy’s sent me a brief text: No matches from NZ jail records.
I rest my head in my hands. Where was he for all those years? He must be dead. This must be the work of an old partner. Or am I missing something obvious? But instead of dwelling on that question, I go back to the albums. They start with John as a baby…coming home from the hospital, his christening, sleeping, crawling, then his first birthday, walking. These are memories I don’t have, yet as I flick through the photos I feel like I’m there, experiencing my parents’ joy at their first child. In the first few pages of the second album I make an appearance. There are photos at the hospital and John’s all grins. Moving through the albums is a flashback into our early lives. Moments I’d almost forgotten. Each photograph is a frozen moment in time, but along with it I see the outskirts of the photos. The memories of us dressing up, swimming, going to the US to see Dad’s family—although I remember Disneyland more than the family visit.