Deep Water

by Sarah Epstein

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ I tell Sabeen.

  ‘And you’ll do that thing we talked about?’

  She means taking the polaroids to Doherty. A look of reluctance passes between us because once we do this there’s no taking it back. Sabeen glances at Henry’s bike, and I can sense what’s going on inside her head. It’s the same thing going on inside mine.

  ‘I will,’ I assure her. ‘First thing tomorrow.’

  We need to find Henry. At any cost.

  One week before the storm

  1 JANUARY 2019, 9:37

  Missy: Happy New Year!

  2 JANUARY 2019, 10:55

  Henry: Hey.

  Missy: Hi! How are you?

  Henry: Not great.

  Missy: What’s up?

  Henry: I hate being at home. My brother’s a d-bag.

  Missy: What did he do?

  Henry: You’re gonna think I’m a baby.

  Missy: No I won’t. Tell me. Please?

  Henry: Last week he pushed me off this really high rock into the reservoir.

  Missy: OMG.

  Henry: I can’t really swim. Like, I’m really bad at it.

  Missy: What the hell is wrong with him?!

  Henry: I dunno. He snapped.

  Missy: Has he done something like this before? Is he dangerous?

  Henry: He’s never tried to hurt me before.

  Missy: Maybe something changed?

  Henry: Great. Now I’ve gotta watch my back with him AND my mother.

  7 JANUARY 2019, 12:26

  Missy: Heeey. Are things better this week?

  9 JANUARY 2019, 17:31

  Missy: Up for a chat?

  11 JANUARY 2019, 11:47

  Missy: Where are you?

  18 JANUARY 2019, 11:08

  Missy: Henry, please message me.

  1 FEBRUARY 2019, 2:05

  Missy: WHERE ARE YOU???

  15 FEBRUARY 2019, 19:36

  Missy: Henry …?

  Now

  The red-headed police officer seems less than thrilled to see me.

  She gives me a curt smile, placing her hands on the reception desk and leaning forwards. ‘You again.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Sergeant Doherty, please.’

  ‘He’s busy right now. I can pass on a message.’

  I glance behind her at the only part of the police station I can see behind the glass. Beyond the computer area is a row of small rooms. A couple have closed doors and window blinds, making it impossible to see inside.

  ‘How long will he be?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, that’s hard to say.’ Her voice has taken on a slightly patronising tone. ‘I can’t really give you an answer.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’ I fidget with the zipper on my pocket. The polaroids sit stiff and insistent against my hip.

  ‘If it’s urgent, I can help you,’ she says. ‘Or another officer.’

  I peer at the closed doors again. ‘I’ll wait for Sergeant Doherty.’

  She straightens to her full height and folds her arms across her chest. ‘How about you tell me what’s going on, hmm?’

  Definitely patronising.

  ‘I have new evidence he’ll be interested in,’ I explain. ‘About Henry Weaver’s disappearance.’

  She eyes me for a second, then reaches behind the counter to retrieve a lined notepad. She slips a pen from her shirt pocket and clicks the end, raising her eyebrows for me to go on.

  ‘It’s something I need to show him,’ I say.

  ‘Show me then.’

  ‘I’d rather deal with Sergeant Doherty.’ Add that to phrases I never thought I’d say.

  The officer sighs and asks me for my name before gesturing towards the row of vinyl chairs along the wall. A woman I vaguely recognise from the hairdresser’s looks up from her phone long enough to sigh and lift her handbag off the seat beside her. I’m about to sit when I spot Doherty walking through the back room with a coffee mug in his hand.

  Busy? Yeah, right.

  ‘Sergeant Doherty!’ I say, hurrying back over to the counter. He glances in my direction but doesn’t change his course towards a room with the door ajar, jerking his head for the female officer to deal with me.

  He’s about to step inside the room when I call out, ‘Ben!’

  This stops him in his tracks. I loathe myself for using his first name like he’s always wanted, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  ‘It’s about Henry Weaver,’ I say quickly, my voice loud enough for him to hear me through the glass. I sense the hairdresser shifting in her chair behind me. Another officer in a back room looks up from his computer.

  ‘There’s something you should see.’ I pull the polaroids from my pocket and hold them up as proof.

  Doherty frowns, placing the mug down on the corner of a desk before disappearing off to the right. In seconds he’s yanking open the security door.

  ‘What have you got?’ he says, motioning at my hand. I offer up the polaroids. His frown deepens as he sifts through them one by one. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘I found them hidden in the basement of Bernie Lawson’s shop. Don’t you think that’s suss?’

  Doherty’s gaze slides past me to where the hairdresser is sitting. She’s on the edge of her chair in an attempt to see what’s in my hand. He quickly punches a code into the security door and ushers me through to the main area of the police station.

  ‘You need to keep your voice down,’ he tells me as the door clunks shut. He leads me to the computer area where the redhead is resettling in front of her computer. ‘We don’t need people spreading gossip. Bernie is a respected member of this community.’

  ‘What’s respectable about this?’ I ask, tapping my finger against the pictures in his hand. ‘Why does he have photos of Henry?’

  Doherty shoots a quick glance at the room he was heading towards earlier. Is he even listening to me? Or is he thinking about putting his feet up on the desk and slurping his coffee?

  ‘It isn’t right,’ I say, drawing his attention back to me. ‘Look at these. Henry doesn’t have a shirt on.’

  A muscle in Doherty’s jaw twitches. ‘Why were you in Bernie Lawson’s basement?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you break in?’

  ‘No! I was with my friend Sabeen.’ I fold my arms. ‘She’s working there.’

  ‘But you don’t work there,’ he says, ‘and now you’ve taken something from private premises without the owner’s permission.’

  ‘Are you serious? Bernie Lawson has half-naked pictures of Henry and you’re coming after me?’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ Doherty says again, his own volume increasing. I glance through the glass at the hairdresser in the waiting room. She shows no sign of having heard.

  ‘We found Henry’s bike down there too,’ I continue. ‘Hidden under a tarp. Do you know about that?’

  He’s not even looking at me. His attention is on the room behind me again. Exasperated, I spin around to find the door is now all the way open. Mason Weaver is standing in the doorway.

  ‘Go in and sit down,’ Doherty says to him. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Here’s your cup of tea, if you still want it.’ He gestures at the ceramic mug on the nearby desk. Mason makes no move to retrieve it.

  ‘You can leave these with me,’ Doherty tells me in a low voice. He holds his hand out to show me the door.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ I ask quickly. ‘Will you question Bernie?’

  His jaw flexes again. ‘That isn’t your concern.’

  ‘Of course it’s my concern. I found something incriminating.’

  Doherty glares at me, then throws an irritated glance at Mason. ‘Go in. Sit down. I haven’t finished questioning you yet.’

  He turns and grips me lightly by the elbow, escorting me to the security door, through the waiting room and out of the police station altogether. Once we’re outside on the footpath, Doherty straightens the polaroids into a neat s
tack and shoves them into his breast pocket.

  ‘I already know about these photos,’ he says. ‘We’ve scanned and entered them into our file on Henry Weaver.’

  ‘What?’ This scatters my thoughts. ‘So … you are investigating Bernie?’

  ‘Bernie Lawson brought these photos to us himself.’

  ‘But—’

  Doherty straightens, casting his shadow over me. ‘I’m not going into further detail with you about this.’

  ‘Henry is my friend.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But you can’t run around town vigilante-style, making allegations and smearing people’s good names. Let the police do their job.’

  ‘Do it then,’ I snap, frustration bubbling over. ‘Why haven’t you found him yet? Why have you stopped searching?’

  ‘We haven’t stopped,’ he says. ‘We’ve simply exhausted the leads we had and we don’t currently have any new information.’

  ‘So that’s it?’

  ‘No. We’ll continue to appeal to the public to report any possible sightings or anything suspicious.’

  ‘Henry’s been missing for three months,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t that make him high priority?’

  Doherty sighs, his shoulders dropping. ‘Do you know how many people are reported missing in Australia every year? Over thirty-eight thousand. And two-thirds of those are under the age of eighteen.’

  ‘Okay. So—’

  ‘Thirteen to seventeen year olds are reported missing at six times the rate of other age groups.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘That’s a lot of missing kids and a lot of resources needed to find them. Almost all of them are found alive and well within a short period of time.’

  ‘And those who aren’t?’

  ‘Their cases stay open and continue to be investigated. Police want to find them as much as their family and friends.’

  Doesn’t feel like it, I want to say.

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go back in there and somehow redirect Mason Weaver away from what he just overheard.’

  ‘What’s he here for?’ I ask as Doherty turns to walk back inside. I think of the shovel, Mason burying something behind his house. Do I tell Doherty? He’ll probably lecture me about trespassing.

  ‘I’m obviously not going to answer that. But you already know about the drunk and disorderly behaviour.’

  ‘He has a temper problem,’ I say, as Doherty reaches the automatic doors. They slide open for him expectantly. ‘Both him and his mother. If you’re searching for reasons why Henry’s missing, you should start with them.’

  ‘What makes you think we haven’t?’

  He walks inside the station and I watch him make his way across the waiting room. He gives me one final glance before slipping through the security door.

  I’ve barely crossed the road when my phone dings. It’s a text from Raf.

  I’ve cracked Henry’s password. You’re gonna want to see this.

  * * *

  Sally is in the front garden as I make my way up the Nolans’ driveway. She’s kneeling in a garden bed with a pair of pruning shears in her hand. One of the cats is sprawled across the front patio, watching on with barely one eye open. As soon as it spots me it gets up and slowly slinks away.

  ‘Ah,’ Sally says, glancing over her shoulder at the sound of my footsteps on the pavestones. ‘Here’s our girl.’ She clumsily pushes herself up off the ground, grumbling about the pain in her knees. Towering over me, she’s a robust woman with a robust bobbed hairstyle, a love of double denim and an English-rose complexion that burns easily in the sun. I see both Raf and Sabeen in her, particularly around the nose and mouth, and especially during highly competitive games of Monopoly.

  She dusts her hands together and holds her arms out for a hug. I sink into her, grateful for the friendly face after my run-in with Doherty. ‘You’ve got my boy grinning again,’ Sally says into my hair. ‘He hasn’t stopped talking about you.’ She kisses the top of my head and holds me at arm’s length. ‘He’s even cleaned his bedroom. You should know he doesn’t move those stinky socks for just anybody.’ She winks, then sends me on my way towards the house.

  Sabeen meets me on the front doorstep. She looks like she’s about to burst. Glancing past my shoulder at her mum in the garden, she quickly ushers me inside. ‘How did it go at the police station?’ she asks, keeping her voice low.

  I fill her in on Doherty already knowing about the polaroids and how Bernie had taken them into the police station himself.

  ‘Oh, thank god,’ Sabeen says, clutching her chest. ‘That means Bernie didn’t do anything dodgy, right?’

  ‘It seems not. But we still don’t know why he took them.’

  ‘Speaking of dodgy,’ Sabeen says, ‘you have to come and check this out.’

  She leads me down the hallway towards Raf ’s bedroom, and I realise that whatever it is he wants to show me, he’s already shared it with his sister. Raf is sitting in front of his computer, his dual monitors displaying images of the night sky. On one screen he’s working in Photoshop with the image enlarged, and on the other he has a number of smaller images open that appear to be identical. As we walk in, he spins in his swivel chair to face us.

  ‘Yesss! You’re here,’ he says, punching his fist. ‘Wait, let me save this.’ He turns back to his computer and clicks his keyboard. ‘I’m stacking some of the photos I took the other night.’

  ‘Stacking?’ I walk over to sit on the edge of his bed. I’m finally able to see Raf ’s pinboard up close. It’s full of photos of his family, a couple of Amir in a soccer jersey and a selection of our friendship group from childhood all the way through to now.

  ‘Long story short,’ Raf says, ‘if I take a bunch of photos in quick succession, I can layer them in Photoshop to create a much more detailed image of the Milky Way.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I say.

  ‘You think that’s impressive, prepare to have your mind blown.’ He smirks and Sabeen rolls her eyes at him. ‘Wait till you hear how I cracked this password.’ He closes the file he’s working on and opens his internet browser. In the blink of an eye he’s got Facebook open. He stands and offers me his chair so I have a closer view of the screen.

  ‘This is my account open right now,’ he says, leaning over me to access the keyboard. He types Henry Weaver into the search bar and the long list of profile images comes up. ‘I knew the key would be figuring out which one, if any, is our Henry.’

  He runs his finger down the screen until he lands on a profile picture of a cartoon parrot wearing a pirate hat. ‘I had to get inside his head,’ Raf explains. ‘And this here—’ he taps the screen, ‘—is him giving a nod to his favourite joke.’

  ‘A parrot?’

  ‘A pirate,’ Sabeen says behind me as she sits down on the bed.

  Raf stares at me expectantly. ‘A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel down his pants. The bartender asks the pirate: “Isn’t that annoying?” And the pirate responds …’

  ‘Arrr, it’s driving me nuts!’ we all say together. I snigger. ‘You’re right. It is his favourite.’

  ‘So it got me thinking if the password might be related to the profile pic.’ He logs out of his account and it takes him back to the login screen. ‘As we suspected, Henry used his Gmail account to log in. And after a bit of trial and error, I figured out the password is drivingmenuts.’ He types it into the password field and presses the Log In button. Henry’s page opens up in front of our eyes.

  ‘You’re brilliant,’ I say, my eyes scouring the page. Henry has no activity on his profile and only one Facebook friend. Somebody called Missy Ellwood.

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ Sabeen says. ‘He never posted anything or joined any groups.’

  ‘However,’ Raf says, clicking open the Messenger icon, ‘there’s one single message thread between him and this girl called Missy Ellwood.’

  ‘A girl?’ I say, feeling dazed.

  Raf backs a
way from the desk and sits on the bed beside Sabeen.

  ‘Read the whole thread,’ she says.

  I scroll right back up to the beginning. Henry and Missy had been chatting for months. I don’t get very far before pulling out my phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Raf asks.

  ‘She says her high school is Airsden High in Sydney’s North Shore. For some reason the name is familiar, but it’s an odd name for a school, right? I want to google it.’

  Sabeen nudges Raf in the stomach. ‘We should have thought of that,’ she says. Then, to me: ‘What does it say?’

  ‘No results.’ I hold my phone out to show them.

  Raf arches an eyebrow. ‘Oooh. The plot thickens.’

  I keep reading, surprised at how much Henry talks about looking for his dad. It’s both terrible and wonderful to hear Henry’s voice coming through in these messages, but more than a few times Missy’s words have me narrowing my eyes.

  ‘This Missy person is totally bogus,’ I say. ‘Her school doesn’t exist, she’s conveniently the same age as Henry and she forgets she has a sister. Henry has to remind her.’

  Sabeen nods in agreement. ‘Dodgy.’

  I click through to Missy Ellwood’s profile. The privacy settings are tight. There’s nothing to see except her profile picture: a girl in a hat and sunglasses standing on a beach at sunset, taken from a distance so it’s difficult to make out any defining features. Returning to the message thread, I re-read parts. One thing it confirms is that Henry was looking for his father, and nothing was resolved about it. According to this, Henry never found him. Or if he did, he didn’t tell Missy.

  My throat closes over when I reach Missy’s last few messages around 10 January with no responses from Henry. As he did with us, Henry left Missy hanging.

  Unless …

  Missy could simply be covering her tracks. If she was catfishing Henry, she might have found another way to make contact and lure him away. Is Missy even still around, or has she moved on to another victim because it all fizzled out with Henry?

  ‘Okay,’ I say, my hands poised over the keyboard.