Spiking the Girl

by Lord, Gabrielle

  Gemma put this face down on the table then pulled out the next photocopied sheet out. It was Claudia’s own witness statement, the one she’d partly glimpsed while in the café with Angie.

  My name is Claudia Zahra Page. I am a Year 10 student at Netherleigh Park in the same class as my friend Amy Bernhard. I saw Amy on the morning of the second of December when I was on the bus going to school. Tasmin and I were down the back and I saw Amy at the front of the bus. I knew she had to race to a meeting with Mr Romero before our History class but she did not turn up to the class. At lunchtime, Mr Romero asked me where Amy was and I said I hadn’t seen her since that morning. I went home after our Art class finished. Later that night, I heard Amy had gone missing and that the police had been informed. I don’t know any reason she might have run away or any other reason for her to be missing.

  Gemma read the statement again. Amy had a meeting with Mr Romero before History and then she didn’t ever come to class. Had anyone checked that out? She recalled the way Mr Romero had interrupted her initial meeting with Miss de Berigny, looking for Tasmin Summers. She made a note to herself then found Lauren Bernhard’s witness statement directly under Claudia’s.

  My name is Lauren Grace Bernhard and on Friday second December I said goodbye to my daughter Amy who was running late for school. Her father was in Hong Kong at the time. Amy didn’t have any breakfast that morning and left in a hurry. She was wearing school uniform as normal and carried her school bag. When she didn’t come home after school as expected I rang her friends Tasmin Summers and Claudia Page, but they said they hadn’t seen her. Later, I rang the police and reported that she was missing. It was the police who told me later that Amy had gone missing from school that day. She has never done anything like this before.

  That you know about, Gemma couldn’t help thinking.

  Then she found the statement from the now missing Tasmin Summers.

  My name is Tasmin Anne Summers and the last time I saw my friend Amy was on the bus on the morning of the second of December. There were a lot of people waiting at the stop because the earlier bus hadn’t stopped. I was sitting up the back with my friend Claudia Page. When we got to school, I went straight to the toilets because I was wearing make-up and Miss de Berigny puts anyone wearing make-up on detention. I had to go to a meeting before school and did not notice that Amy was missing until Miss de Berigny asked me if I had seen her. I told her that I hadn’t. I don’t know of any reason why Amy would run away.

  Gemma stretched her neck and shoulders. The light had faded and she switched the deck light on and sprayed herself with citronella to keep the mozzies at bay.

  The next piece of paper was not a witness statement, but a memo.

  Intranet Memorandum

  From: Supt JS Buisman

  To: D/S Bruno Gross

  Re: Missing Person: Amy Bernhard. CN #039–4303

  Bruno,

  After our discussion of yesterday and the situation that you described to me I think it would be best from the legal angle that you step aside. I have decided to take you off this case and will allocate someone else to take over. Please be ready to hand over all relevant paperwork, case notes, etc, when directed.

  Yours

  Jim

  Gemma read it again. Bruno Gross had been the detective in charge of the earlier investigation and he’d been relieved of this position and someone else put on. Why? What was ‘the situation’ they’d discussed? She made a note to track down Jim Buisman and underlined it. She recalled how it was often messy when a job changed hands, with more than the usual chance of procedures not being followed up and information slipping between cracks during the handover. This would be multiplied if the original investigator had been someone like G-for-Gross.

  The last adult to have spoken to Amy appeared to have been Mr Romero. Surely he should have been interviewed? She made a mental note to ask Angie if he had ever been properly followed up; she knew that it took only one incompetent or lazy member on an investigating team for all the work done by the others to be undermined. She shuffled through and found the witness statement she was very keen to see—that of Mannix John Romero.

  I have been teaching Art and History at Netherleigh Park for six years and I teach Amy Bernhard Art and History. On the morning of the second of December I was delayed in traffic and arrived late for my teaching duties. I first noticed that Amy was not in class that morning, but it wasn’t until the end of the day that I heard she had gone missing. She is a good student and I don’t know of any reason that she would go missing.

  Had Bruno picked up the hole in Mr Romero’s statement that the teacher hadn’t mentioned that a pre-school-hours meeting had been arranged with Amy? She needed to talk to Mr Romero as soon as possible . . .

  Gemma sorted the statements into two piles: those she’d read and noted, those yet to be examined. From the second pile, she picked up the statement from Mr Alistair Forde—the harmless, funny old bachelor who lived next door, Gemma remembered.

  I live next door to the Bernhard house and on the night of the thirty-first of October I was changing the light bulb when I happened to look outside and saw a person crouching in the bushes outside one of the rooms of the Bernhard house. I could see him even though the person was keeping down because of the outside automatic light on the side passage of my house. I went downstairs and as I was walking up the side to challenge this person, he turned around and I got a good look at his face before he took off, running in a northerly direction and disappearing over the back fence. The person was not familiar to me. I rang Lauren Bernhard and told her what I’d seen.

  Gemma stood up and went over the railing, leaning against it. The sky and sea were now the same luminous steel colour as the last of the reflected light from the west bounced back from the surface of the ocean. Despite the citronella, she realised she was being targeted so she gathered up the piles of papers and took them back inside. She hunted through the unread statements but couldn’t find any other reference to the incident reported by Alistair Forde. It was probably just an entry on the local police station’s running sheet with NFA—no further action—beside it.

  The next statement was from Amy’s father.

  My name is Andrew Bernhard and I am divorced from Amy’s mother and have been living at the above address in Brisbane for the last eleven years. I was attending a business meeting when my ex-wife contacted me and told me that our daughter Amy had not been to school on the second of December and that she’d called Amy’s friends and was worried . . . Amy is a good girl and has never done anything like this before.

  How would you know? Gemma thought. She quickly skipped through the rest of the statements. There should be one from Eric Stokes, Amy’s stepfather, president of the FFM—but there wasn’t. Had he been overlooked too? All the more reason for her to visit Eric Stokes.

  Next Gemma turned her attention to her copies of the running sheets including the names and addresses of the people the police had contacted in the first days of Amy’s disappearance. Could Amy have headed north to see her father and met with foul play? She thought of the Ratbag—the kid who’d lived next door to her in the adjoining unit until he and his mother had moved to Melbourne. He’d run away, back to Sydney, and camped out on the cliffs near his old apartment until Gemma had stumbled on him and taken him in for a few days.

  Gemma stood up and stretched. There was something right in front of her, something important. Something she wasn’t getting, something she wasn’t seeing. Something that didn’t add up. She needed a break. But first she needed to organise an interview with Mr Romero. Both Amy and Tasmin had been expected at pre-school meetings with him on the mornings they’d disappeared. Her mobile rang and she snatched it up.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Angie, her voice sounding tired. ‘I knew you’d want to know straightaway. I’ve just come from the morgue and the initial exam
ination of Amy Bernhard. She’s been officially identified.

  ‘The body was rolled up in a piece of vinyl and the doc’s only got skeletal remains to work with. But the vinyl might have protected some evidence. There was no clothing found on or near her—nothing except a piece of nylon cord. Samples have gone to the Division of Analytic Laboratories in case there’s anything on them. The doc’s saying it’s going to be one of those tricky ones. Still, it’s pretty amazing what he can get from a pile of bones.’

  ‘Did you notice,’ Gemma began, ‘that both Amy and Tasmin were supposed to have a meeting with their History teacher—’

  ‘I did,’ said Angie. ‘I tried to contact him today but he’s off sick. I’m going to talk to the school body on Friday night—I’ll catch up with him then. Or track him down. By then, we might have something helpful from the pathology report.’

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘The strike force is being put together right now. We’re going to check out all the teachers—their backgrounds, employment histories.’

  ‘As long as Bruno doesn’t get that job,’ Gemma said. ‘Make sure it’s given to someone who’ll do it.’ She paused. ‘That reminds me—did you see that memo from a super taking Bruno off the earlier investigation? Someone called Jim Buisman?’

  ‘Vaguely. I didn’t take much notice. I was concentrating on the witness statements.’

  ‘Where can I find Buisman?’

  ‘Last I heard he was HOD. I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Hurt on duty’ was often used as a door out of the police service, Gemma knew. Angie sighed. ‘Now I’ve had to go and cancel a date with Trevor. Why don’t these kids just stay home and behave?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Angie laughed. ‘Trevor’s got to go away on a job.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He sent me this huge box of red roses and a box of chocolates. And in the chocolates was another poem. Listen . . .’ Angie started reading. ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . . Isn’t that just gorgeous?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Gemma was sure she’d heard it before. Even so, she couldn’t help a pang of envy. Angie was happy and in love. Not like me, she thought. Home alone with witness statements and mozzies. There was a pause during which she focused back on the subject.

  ‘Who’ve you got on the strike force?’ she asked, wondering if she’d know any of the names.

  ‘Would you believe, Sean Wright?’

  ‘You poor thing,’ said Gemma. ‘G-for-Gross and Mr Right in one task force. You should get danger money.’

  ‘Hey, cheer up, honeybun. You sound edgy or something. What’s up?’ Angie asked.

  ‘We’ve just discovered—Kit and I, I mean—that we’ve got a sister. A half-sister.’ Gemma filled her friend in.

  ‘Would your father’s name be on the birth certificate?’

  Gemma considered. ‘She was in love with him. She said she was going to kill herself if he didn’t leave our mother.’

  ‘Then I’d say most definitely your father’s name will appear on the birth certificate. Why would she be coy about it? She’d want to name him as the father of her child if she was in love with the man. She’d want to get him on paper. Then it’s almost official,’ said Angie.

  Gemma’s mind went through some fast calculations. ‘So I should be looking for a female child, father’s name Chisholm, born . . .’ She hesitated. ‘That’s where it gets really tricky. We haven’t got a birth date. Only the year.’ The online individual search facility she used would probably require her half-sister’s full name. And their records might not go back far enough anyway.

  ‘You’re not going to be able to get into Births, Deaths and Marriages,’ said Angie. ‘Not unless you bribe someone, blackmail them, seduce them or know a good hacker.’

  It certainly wasn’t going to be easy, Gemma conceded. Identity theft was the crime of the season and, apart from the person in question, only parents could now access birth certificates. Even then, three forms of ID were required. For a wicked moment, she wondered if Mike could hack into government records. It had certainly been done before. But she dismissed the idea as crazy. It would be the end of her professional life. And his. Serving time at Mulawa women’s prison was not an attractive proposition. Green had never been her colour.

  ‘So where are you going to start?’ said Angie. ‘You might have to door-knock every house in Hargreaves Street.’

  ‘I’ll start at the usual place: electoral rolls. Although without a first name that would hardly help.’ Gemma had a sudden inspiration. ‘Angie, you said it! Of course she’d want to get him on paper! She may even have wanted to get him in the paper! Announcing the happy event. Perhaps she put “Kingston–Chisholm. A daughter”.’

  ‘Do you reckon?’ said Angie. ‘And then go off and top herself?’

  ‘It’s a start,’ said Gemma.

  ‘You’ll have many happy days in the State Library, peering at microfilmed newspapers. Three hundred and sixty plus, not counting public holidays,’ said Angie, ringing off.

  Gemma brought her attention back to the two girls from Netherleigh Park. The status of the investigation into the case of Amy Bernhard had changed from missing person to murder and this immediately made Tasmin Summers’s sudden disappearance more ominous. Gemma also wanted to speak to Mr Mannix Romero as soon as possible, sick or not. Her phone rang again.

  ‘Sorry to ring so late,’ said Beatrice de Berigny, ‘but I need to ask you something.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Gemma, ‘I was going to ring you. I need to talk to Mr Romero. Check a couple of things with him.’

  There was a silence before Miss de Berigny spoke. ‘I want you to come and talk to the school body on Friday night. Dectective Sergeant Angie McDonald is going to address the girls and the staff and I’ve invited their families as well. If you could come too, I’m sure it would make much more of an impression—cover all bases. I’ve sent notes home with all the students about it and considerable interest is being shown.’

  That would be a perfect opportunity, Gemma thought, knowing that she didn’t need to check her diary. Her nights were all free now. Too free.

  ‘I’ll mention to Mr Romero that you want to talk to him,’ Miss de Berigny went on. ‘He’s not well just now.’

  ‘With your permission,’ Gemma added, ‘I’d like to have a look around the school too, especially the classrooms.’

  ‘You’re very welcome to do that,’ said the principal. ‘I’ll arrange it myself. One of the senior students could show you around.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Gemma. ‘Tasmin Summers.’ She noticed the principal’s sharp intake of breath at the name. ‘What do you know about her family situation?’

  ‘Her father is in the military,’ said Miss de Berigny. ‘The youngest general in the army.’ She paused. ‘He’s away in the Gulf at the moment.’

  ‘And Mrs Summers?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘She runs her own film production company. Brilliant woman.’

  After ringing off, Gemma headed back into the kitchen and opened the fridge. She needed to talk to the brilliant producer, Mrs Summers. She stood there, staring into the fridge, deep in thought. Still the same miserable items—the drying chicken carcass blighting the interior. She pulled it out and put it in the rubbish, scolding herself. Gemma Lincoln, your fridge is a disgrace.

  She started making a list. Sometimes, ordinary routine chores—like shopping for herself—could be very soothing.

  Six

  Gemma drove to Kings Cross, the shopping list in her briefcase. The big 24-hour supermarket in the Kingsgate Centre was convenient and well stocked. Mechanical Christmas carols sounded behind the clash of trolleys and the too-loud announcements about pricing.

  Despite the recent attempts to clean up the Cross, the s
pruikers were already out, trying to drum up business nevertheless. Two of the worst clubs, operating as unlicensed brothels, had not been able to renew their leases and were now boarded up, plastered with advertisements for rock bands, moving-house sales and singles clubs. Maybe I should take note of that last number, Gemma thought bitterly.

  Lugging grocery packages back to her car in the underground parking station, some atavistic sense stirred in her. Badly lit, with dark corners and stains on the ground, the car park revived a memory of the frequently replayed, jerky security footage of a woman who had been the subject of an intense murder investigation caught leaving a car park. She had never been seen again.

  Gemma swung around but there was no one in sight except a young mother battling with the shopping, a tired toddler and a baby, clearly not knowing which one to attend to first. But still the signal from some ancient part of Gemma’s brain persisted: someone is watching you.

  She stowed the shopping bags in the boot and got back into the car, wanting to be out of there fast. Reversing quickly, she swung the car towards the exit sign, using the mirror to keep an eye on her rear. Two other cars swung out straight after her—a red Volkswagen and a white Ford. All traffic had to turn left at the exit and she watched the progress of the other two vehicles. The red VW peeled off near Bayswater Road, but the white Ford stayed behind, two cars back—the classic ‘two for cover’ of physical surveillance. She wondered why they’d bother. It was clear she was heading home with her shopping, and there was no secrecy about where she lived—her business was listed in the phone book.

  She drove in a wide circle around the Cross, returning finally via Woolloomooloo and into the parking station again, the white Ford staying with her. She indicated left but suddenly swung into a just-vacated spot, braking sharply. The white Ford went past, fast now because he knew he’d been pinged, the driver just a colourful blur with dark hair. She jotted down the part of the rego she’d managed to get, abandoned her own car and hurried on foot up to street level, keeping an eye out for the Ford.