by Sarah Bailey
I call to her over my shoulder while I walk with Ben across the grass. ‘I’ll talk to Dad at home. We have to pack.’ I bundle Ben into one of the taxis lining the street outside the church, squeezing his hand as I tip my head back against the car seat.
Feeling nervous, I call the number Jonesy gave me.
Chief Inspector Celia Tran’s voice is clipped and businesslike. ‘So, Ken would have told you we’re dealing with a homicide and a missing person, but we’re not sure at this stage if they are linked.’
‘How did the boy die?’ I ask.
‘Beaten to death in his garage,’ she replies. ‘Head injuries.’
‘No weapon?’
‘We’re still looking.’
I nod, trying to imagine a teenage girl beating a teenage boy to death.
‘Does the girl have any history of running away?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Tran, ‘but her family situation is extremely volatile. To be honest, I was pretty sure we were looking at a runaway or perhaps a suicide until we got the call about Rick this morning. Now I’m not sure what to think.’
Déjà vu has me flailing as if I’m falling, even though my feet are still flat on the ground. The seeds of doubt that lodged inside me during the Mara case are back.
‘Do either of them have known drug links?’
‘It’s a pretty clean town these days,’ she replies, a hint of pride in her voice. ‘We had an ice issue across the region a few years back, but all of the squads from Byron to Fairhaven have worked hard to drive it out of the community. The new hospital in Fairhaven has helped, and there was some government funding as well. There’s still a lot of low-grade marijuana use, but that doesn’t cause too many problems. The party drugs are normally brought in by the backpackers and tend to be seasonal. We watch it over summer, but it’s pretty tame.’
What she’s describing sounds similar to Smithson, except I know from talking to Jonesy that ice remains a big issue.
‘I’m keen to get on top of everything asap,’ I say.
‘I’ll send you what we have so far, which obviously isn’t much.’ She pauses. ‘You’ll need to hit the ground running, I’m afraid. It’s a small town and there will be a lot of pressure to assure everyone they’re safe.’
Blood pounds through my head. ‘No problem. I’ll read as much as I can on the plane.’
‘Good. Well, you’re certainly getting me out of a bind. The local CI says there’s no way the team up here can manage something like this. Now, I’ve just checked—I can get you and your son on a 1.30 pm flight from Gowran, if that’s doable?’
I glance sideways at Ben, then at the clock on the taxi’s dash. ‘We’ll be there.’
‘Okay, good. We won’t move the body until you arrive, so let me know if you’re delayed.’
‘Gemma, this is ridiculous.’ Dad stands in the guestroom doorway while I shove clothes and toiletries into my suitcase. ‘Ben needs to be with family right now.’
I spin around. ‘No, he needs to be with me. But not here. We need to get out of here.’
The toe of my workboot peeks out from under the bed. I add it to a growing mountain of items on the ugly apricot armchair.
My phone pings with emails that I know are from Inspector Tran: case notes, accommodation details, paperwork.
‘What does Mac say about all this?’ says Dad stiffly.
I feel a sharp stab of guilt as I push strands of hair from my sweaty face. ‘He thinks I should do whatever feels right,’ I snap. ‘He trusts me.’
‘And Jodie?’
‘I haven’t spoken to her yet, but I don’t need her permission. We’ve agreed Ben is staying with me for now. I’ll call her later.’
Dad closes his eyes and his face tics with frustration. ‘Gemma, can you at least stop and think about this? Sleep on it. This isn’t a good time to make hasty decisions.’
‘For god’s sake, Dad, I need to get to the crime scene today. The flight is booked.’ I push my weight against my overflowing suitcase, tugging the zip around the bulging sections. I turn back to face him. ‘Look, I know you’re worried but me sitting around here isn’t really achieving anything. And it’s not like Ben is missing class for the next two weeks—the holidays start on Thursday.’
Rebecca appears in the doorway, her gaze flicking nervously between the two of us. ‘Maybe some time away from Smithson is a good idea, Ned.’
Dad throws his hands up in the air. ‘What, it’s a good idea to drag a grieving little kid to some strange place while his mother loses herself in a murder investigation? Are you crazy?’
‘I just meant,’ Rebecca says, fidgeting with her hanky, ‘I can see how being here might be difficult for Gemma and Ben right now. Nothing about any of this is easy.’
Surprised, I throw a grateful look her way. ‘Rebecca’s right.’
He opens his mouth before simply closing it again, shaking his head. ‘It’s Easter this weekend.’
‘Who fucking cares? It’s not like we’re going to be celebrating anyway.’
‘Gemma!’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, but I need to do this.’
An old memory drifts into my consciousness, of Dad and me going through the motions of Christmas a few weeks after Mum died, the excruciating pain of pretending the familiar routine would make us feel better.
Dad gives me a long look, the heat of his anger cooling into sadness. ‘I’m not going to tell you what to do, Gemma—lord knows I haven’t bothered doing that for years—but I want it known that I think this is an incredibly stupid idea.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I appreciate your support.’ I push past him to grab Ben’s suitcase.
He follows me up the hall. ‘Surely you realise things are different now? It’s not all about you anymore. You don’t have the luxury of assuming Ben is okay and that someone else is looking out for him.’
My face flushes violently and I clench my teeth trying to keep the venom from my words. ‘I’m very aware that Ben is my son and it’s my job to look after him. And that’s what I’m trying to do. But I can’t be here right now. I just can’t.’
Dad sighs. ‘Well, I guess you have some thinking to do, my girl. This is Ben’s home. He has family here. People who love him. And, frankly, he is the priority, not you.’ Dad adds quietly, ‘What would Scott think?’
Fury hits me, followed by a gut-punch of guilt, but I don’t want to fight with Dad anymore; I don’t have the energy. I take in his fallen face, riddled with creases and sunspots. Had he wanted to leave Smithson after Mum died? Had he felt compelled to start over somewhere else? I can easily summon Dad’s drawn expression and empty stares, but that’s all. Despite my grief and confusion, the agony of being alive after Mum was gone, I never considered we’d do anything but soldier on in Smithson.
I fill my lungs with air and try to calm down. ‘It’s only for a little while. I need time to think, and I can’t do that here. Plus, I’m better when I’m working, you know that.’ I pluck Ben’s T-shirts, shorts and underwear from the sofa bed in the study and push them into his backpack.
‘Gemma, I know you love Ben. You just need to remember that he needs you like he’s never needed you before.’ Dad’s voice shakes. ‘You just better bloody make sure you’re there for him.’
Candy and I are standing outside the security checkpoint at the airport waiting for Ben, who is buying a packet of chips. I catch my reflection in a shop mirror. I’m a head shorter than Candy and I look almost childlike next to her. My long dark hair is held back from my face with the cheap sunglasses I just bought from the chemist but my ponytail is a messy mane down my back. The skin on my arms and face is pale and there are dark rings under my green eyes. Not only do I feel unfit but I look it too—the recent pause in my exercise routine is obvious in the roundness of my figure.
‘Thanks for driving us,’ I say.
‘No problem,’ says Candy evenly. She’s still wearing her funeral attire but has added a denim jacket. She shifts
her weight to her other hip and clutches at her huge stomach. ‘I mean, I get it. A boy is dead, a girl is missing, probably dead, and you’re like a bee to honey, you totally get off on that stuff.’
‘Candy!’
‘Don’t worry, I get off on it too.’
Ben returns and I pull him into a hug, the chip packet rustling between us. ‘All okay?’
He nods. ‘Can I have your phone?’
‘Ten minutes,’ I say, handing it over.
‘And I don’t think you’re running away,’ continues Candy, her gaze fixed on Ben.
‘I didn’t say I was.’
‘I mean, you already did that ages ago.’
‘Candy!’
‘I’m just mucking around.’ She tips her neck hard to the right, wincing. ‘What did Mac say?’
‘I’m going to call him later.’
She folds her arms over her bump and purses her lips. ‘You haven’t told him yet?’
I don’t reply.
‘Jesus, Gemma,’ she mutters.
‘Mac will understand,’ I say, even though I’m not sure he will. ‘He knows I’m not ready to bring Ben to Sydney. I need time to think about what we’re going to do.’
Candy fills her cheeks with air, then huffs it out. ‘Well, I can see how some people might think going from your ex-partner’s funeral to some tin-pot surf town to solve a homicide is weird. But you are weird. And I get that you need a bit of time out from good old Shit Town. Plus, you’re a workaholic so you’re going cuckoo not having a case. This way you get to kill a few birds with one stone.’ She yawns widely. ‘Sorry, I’m knackered. Anyway, who cares what anyone thinks? You’re in mourning—you can act as weird as you like.’
‘Thanks, Candy.’ I give her a hug, breathing in her citrus perfume.
‘Don’t thank me.’ She talks into my hair. ‘Just make sure you come back with a plan. It’s fine to be in freefall for a little while, but your kid needs to know where his life is heading. Or at least where he’s going to live.’
Her comment burns. I essentially deactivated my parenting licence four years ago, and I know it. I played an active support role, cheering enthusiastically from the sidelines, but was more than happy to let Scott drive. And now I’m in the driver’s seat of a speeding car with faulty brakes, a white-knuckled Ben beside me.
When our flight is called over the speaker system, I gesture for Ben.
‘I plan to come back with a plan,’ I say softly.
Candy gives me a long, hard stare. ‘Good.’ She looks over at the airport restaurant and clutches her belly again. ‘Shit, what a day. Don’t tell anyone but I’m going to have a wine.’
Monday, 11 April
2.03 pm
The flight is brief, barely thirty minutes. Ben draws a picture of a dragon on the back of a sick bag while I review the case notes Tran sent through on my tiny phone screen.
Rattling around in my head is the phone call I had with Jodie before we took off. She was irritated about our sudden departure, but she was also exhausted, and I got the feeling that part of her felt relieved I was removing myself from her life, even if only temporarily.
‘It’s not like you called to ask me, Gemma,’ she snapped. ‘I didn’t even know where you and Ben went after the funeral.’
‘It all happened really quickly,’ I said.
She just sighed and asked to speak to Ben.
I bristle as I recall her parting words. ‘Ben obviously has everything he needs here, Gemma, so if it all gets too much for you he can just come home.’
I give his leg a quick squeeze and train my eyes back to my screen. There’s barely any information on the murdered boy yet, just basic details. Richard ‘Rick’ Fletcher, seventeen years old. Both parents are still alive and together, and he has an older brother, Aiden, and an older sister, Belinda. Rick’s lived in Fairhaven his whole life. He dropped out of school at the end of Year Eleven and very recently became a self-employed landscaper. No priors, nothing to suggest he would wind up dead in his carport one Monday morning.
The report on the missing girl isn’t much more substantial: she’s younger than Rick, just fifteen, and in Year Ten at Fairhaven High. A family file is included: her father is a suspected serial domestic abuser, but no charges have been laid against him since the late 1980s when he was arrested for a drunken bar fight that left a man permanently disfigured. The Fairhaven police are frequently called out to the Clark home by concerned neighbours but Daniel’s wife, Dorothy, refuses to press charges and denies her husband is abusive. I shift in my seat and wriggle my toes. It’s not much of a stretch for abuse to escalate into murder, particularly if Abbey was starting to assert her independence.
I feel a familiar bubble of apprehension as I click on a photo of Rick Fletcher. Seeing a victim always sears a homicide onto my soul; there’s no going back once they have a face. Blond, tan and with a friendly smile, Rick could easily star in a tourism ad for a quintessential Australian beach holiday. What a waste.
Next I click on a photo of Abbey Clark. Goose bumps break out on my arms and legs. She looks so much like Nicki Mara. The same wavy brown hair, similar pretty features. I am catapulted back to the brightly lit case room, Nicki’s face smiling down at me from the photo board as I tried to make sense of her disappearance.
I fight the urge to stand up and demand the plane turn around. Even though rationally I know this case is different, that Abbey is not Nicki, it doesn’t stop the dread. The steady pulse of doubt. Ben is still sketching on the sick bag next to me, and the plane hums along. Tiny white spots flood my vision. My heart still racing, I count to ten. I close Abbey’s photo and start to read the case notes.
Abbey’s father reported her missing just after 10 am yesterday. He said he’d woken up a few hours earlier to discover she hadn’t returned the previous evening, then immediately driven around to Rick Fletcher’s house, searching for her there. Apparently Daniel was convinced that Rick was responsible for her disappearance.
On Saturday night she’d attended a large house party, and several witnesses say she seemed fine—although later in the evening, she reportedly had a heated argument with Rick. When Tran interviewed Rick on Sunday, he admitted he and Abbey had recently broken up and said they’d argued because he thought she was flirting with another guy at the party, which he felt was disrespectful. Rick claimed he’d seen Abbey leave the party alone on her bike about half an hour later, just before 11.30 pm.
My forehead creases as I read the next section of the missing person file. At about 11.45 pm, Abbey went to the Fairhaven Police Station claiming her bike had been stolen from the party. The constable on duty, Kai Lane, wrote up the report, then a local resident rang to complain about the noise at the house party. Lane called the CI and arranged to meet him there before offering Abbey a lift home, which she declined.
She hasn’t been seen since. Her bank accounts haven’t been touched. Her phone went off the grid around midnight; its last tracked location is central Fairhaven, so I make a note to ask Tran about CCTV in the area.
It also seems like the cops only did a cursory search of the Clarks’ house on Sunday. As far as they could tell, Abbey hadn’t been home, but maybe they missed something. The squad in Fairhaven is unlikely to be very experienced and detectives have their biases too; maybe they assumed that Abbey was just passed out at a friend’s place or wanted some time out.
I tap my pen against the fold-out plane table. Despite the misery of the morning, my brain is clicking into gear for the first time in weeks. It grips around the facts of the case, trying to arrange the sequence of events. If something did happen to Abbey Clark, then Rick Fletcher is surely suspect number one—a recent break-up, a fiery clash an hour before she disappeared.
Or was it the other way around? Was Abbey furious enough at him to go into hiding and then strike out a few days later?
I scroll forward a few pages to the summary of the statement Rick gave on Sunday. In her report, Constable Edwina de Luca descr
ibes him as ‘devastated’. He said he left the party and went to meet his sister and her friends on the beach where they were having a drunken gathering: not the most airtight of alibis. He was on foot; he could have easily encountered Abbey, disposed of her and still gone to the beach party so the others could vouch for him. But why? Humiliation about the break-up? A sense of betrayal?
I click back on Abbey’s file. What does the stolen bike mean? Perhaps it wasn’t really stolen. Or if it was, then why did Rick say he saw her leave the party on it? He might have misremembered because he was drunk, but it seems like a strange thing to conjure up. Maybe Abbey claimed the bike was stolen as part of a ruse to cover up her plan to disappear. I make another note to review how far she could get on her bike at night without being spotted.
My mind wanders to all the heated exchanges Mac and I had about Nicki Mara. We profiled her endlessly, talking late into the night, long after Owen and the rest of the team had gone home.
After a few weeks, our heated conversations shifted to the pub opposite the station. Tucked away in a private booth, we downed beers as we debated the hidden clues in Nicki’s phone records and WhatsApp messages. I felt like I knew her intimately: her ongoing issues with her mother, the jealousy she felt toward her older sister, her fondness for her dad. Her propensity to take party drugs, her history of mental illness. I got so deep into her head I couldn’t see straight. My instincts were shot. Mac, on the other hand, kept his distance. He could see things I couldn’t.
I’m well aware Nicki’s case has made me a little gun-shy, scared to fix onto a solution too quickly. I’ve been second-guessing myself, then second-guessing my second guesses, terrified my assumptions could compromise a solve—or even a life.
I don’t know where Abbey sits on the scale yet, but I do know most runaway kids don’t bail in the middle of the night, especially if they’re on their own. Especially not if they’re from a coastal town that has few options for an exit strategy. No buses, no trains, not even a taxi service. I make another note to look into her finances. Nothing about this seems planned, but if it turns out she was stockpiling money then that might suggest otherwise.