by Sarah Bailey
‘Alright,’ I say, smiling. ‘I guess it’s not that late. I’ll have a beer—just a middy, please.’
A waitress brings over a chocolate ice-cream cone for Ben, and Cam pours me a beer.
‘How long have you lived here, Cam?’ I ask.
His eyes widen in pretend shock and he exaggerates his accent as he says, ‘What? You mean, you don’t think I was born here?’
‘It is my strong investigative opinion that you were not.’
‘Wow, you’re good.’ He smiles warmly. ‘I came here for a week about fifteen years ago.’
‘Did you fall in love with the climate?’
‘A woman, actually. But the climate was appealing too, and, as it turns out, more stable.’
I laugh.
He takes a drinks order and sets about making a complicated cocktail at breakneck speed. My tired eyes relax as they follow his movements.
‘My family is very academic,’ he says. ‘I completed one year of a medical degree myself, actually, and my three brothers seem to be addicted to putting letters after their names.’ He gestures at our bustling surrounds and laughs. ‘They are very confused about all this.’
‘Do they all still live in Ireland?’
‘I have a brother in Sydney. He has a wife and a bunch of kids, all my brothers do.’ Cam winks. ‘Again, I’m the black sheep.’
‘I’m sure they’re very impressed with what you’ve built here. I mean, who wouldn’t be?’
Cam’s face dimples in boyish pride, and he finishes the cocktail with a flourish. ‘You can come back any time with that kind of comment.’
Several patrons are jostling for his attention, so we say goodbye. I leave through the side entrance to avoid Simon. It’s still warm and the ocean breeze swirls around us as we head to our room. It feels nice to be in our own space again. I let Ben watch the tail end of a kids’ movie while I unpack the last of our things before herding him through his nightly ritual and into the single bed. His eyes droop when I kiss him goodnight and pull a sheet up to his chin.
He buried his father today, I think, as I look at his perfect face.
Flicking off the main light switch, I snap on the bedside table lamp and change into an old T-shirt. I crawl in between the clean white sheets on the double bed and log online, spreading out the case-file notes Tran gave me. Several emails appear in my inbox: as well as the files from Lane, I’ve been sent access to Abbey’s social media accounts. The top half of my face feels heavy as I flick through several photos of her and some friends. She definitely looks like Nicki, but not as much as in that first photo I saw. Waves of Abbey’s long dark hair are honey-tinted, and her smooth olive skin is scattered with pretty freckles. The seriousness of her golden-brown stare in several shots makes her appear a lot older than fifteen. I read through a few pages of her online conversations, recent comments and friends, her little world coming to life in front of me. She loves art, dolphins and music. She’s worried about the planet. She’s never left Fairhaven. I check her messages, mainly just links sent from friends to news articles, blogs and YouTube videos, and a few birthday party invites. There’s nothing to suggest bullying or depression or thoughts of suicide, not that I’m willing to rule it out but, still, there are no obvious red flags. There aren’t any messages from Rick—they must have communicated via text, Snapchat or WhatsApp.
But there are two messages from someone called Robert Weston, both sent in the past three weeks. The first one reads:
Hi! It was great to meet you today. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you on here but I asked around and got your name J You are so pretty. Hopefully see you again soon. Rob.
Abbey didn’t reply to this message, but that didn’t deter Robert from sending another, on Wednesday last week.
Hi again. I hope you are having a great week. Wondering whether your going to the house party on Friday night? Me and my mates keep hearing about it. Would be great to see you there. I’d love to have a proper chat to you. R
Abbey replied on Friday morning:
Hi. Yep, I’m definitely going. See you there! Abbey.
I click through to Robert Weston’s profile page. The settings are private but a few images can be viewed. His profile photo is of a giant dead fish; the hands that grip it are strong and pale. The other two photos are of landscapes. He’s from the UK but clearly he’s in Australia now: the recently uploaded photos are all beach shots. None feature people. I tap my finger to my mouth, thinking. It’s interesting that Abbey replied to him the morning after her alleged break-up with Rick. I read over Robert’s messages again. He and Abbey clearly met, but I can’t tell whether they saw each other again after he sent the first message. Her response is friendly, but it hardly seems like they were romantically involved despite Robert’s attempt at charm.
I jot down the mobile number linked to his Facebook account and yawn deeply, trying to stay awake.
My mind drifts to what Mac said about the Fairhaven inquest he consulted on years ago, the same one Tara mentioned. I do a Google search and dozens of articles appear, most of them with Simon Charleston’s by-line. I click on the piece he wrote two days after the young couple, Gregory Ng and Sally Luther, went missing.
The photo used at the top of the article could have been pulled from a fashion shoot. Greg’s arm is hooked around Sally’s shoulders, there’s a beer in his hand, and he is smiling, his glossy dark hair spiked upward, his tanned skin clear and glowing. Sally’s blonde head tilts at the camera, her collarbones exposed and angular, her smile both wholesome and seductive. They ooze health and youth.
They weren’t together the night they disappeared. It was a Sunday, and Sally had dinner at her sister Evelyn’s place and helped her organise some last-minute things for her wedding the following weekend. Just before 10 pm, Evelyn walked Sally to her car at the end of the short driveway and she drove off. Evelyn Luther didn’t ask her sister where she was going, but only because she assumed Sally would head to their family home where Evelyn had lived until three months prior. Sally’s car was out the front of the house the following morning, just like it always was, but her parents were in Sydney with some relatives who had come to Australia for the wedding, so it’s unclear if she ever went inside that night.
Greg worked an eight-hour shift at the pub like he always did on Sundays. It was a quiet night and they closed up around 10 pm. Sally and Greg didn’t speak on the phone that Sunday, though he texted her at 10.13 pm to say he was closing up at the pub. He said goodnight and told her he loved her. She never replied. The other two staff members clocked off, and Greg stayed to complete the clean-up and close. Cam is quoted as saying he was in the kitchen when he heard Greg call out that he was heading off. Cam replied with a goodnight and thought nothing of it—until the next day, when he realised almost eight hundred dollars was missing from the till.
By then Sally and Greg were both gone. His car was gone too, fuelling the rumours they had eloped in the middle of the night. Sally’s family have never given up hope of finding their daughter, offering a substantial monetary reward for information on her whereabouts.
I read about the inquest, which was held almost two years later, then I close the article and do a fresh search for Simon Charleston. A few head shots appear, along with his latest piece: ‘Tragedy Strikes Sleepy Beach Town Once Again’ screams the headline. There’s a photo of me standing on Rick Fletcher’s lawn talking to Lane, the ambulance behind us in the driveway. ‘DS Woodstock flew in to lead the case,’ reads the caption.
I close the laptop and tune in to the low hoot of a nearby owl as I think about Sally and Greg, two souls who have never been able to rest, their memories tainted with doubt. My thoughts turn to Abbey, the natural comparison to Greg and Sally making her seem even more like a kid. If she died on Saturday night, she will have started to rot into the ground. I picture her bloodied and crying, buried alive. I see her abandoned in the bush, praying to be found. I see Nicki Mara. I squeeze my eyes shut. No. I can’t let N
icki into this; I can’t let my guilt cloud my thinking. Abbey deserves more than that.
There’s another possibility, of course: that Abbey is a killer. Mick Lamb wouldn’t rule it out following his initial review. I glance back at her photo. It doesn’t seem possible.
I don’t remember dozing off, but when I wake an hour later the lamp is still on, the case files are splayed across the sheets to my left, and to my right is Ben, his small body shaped to the curve of my spine, his skinny arm tight around my waist.
THIRD DAY MISSING
Tuesday, 12 April
5.12 am
I toss and turn all night, finally giving up on sleep when daylight muscles in around the blinds. I lie looking at the ceiling for a few minutes, my eyes grainy and sore, and wonder how Rick Fletcher’s parents are coping today; they’ve woken up to a new reality, a world without their son.
I push the covers away, careful not to disturb Ben.
I cry in the shower as I wash my hair using the miniature bottles of coconut shampoo and conditioner from the bathroom cupboard. Clad in a towel, I go back to the kitchenette where I tap out a brief email to Jonesy and flick a text to Dad. Through the kitchen window the sea glitters like a field of sapphires. The fishermen are back, and several surfers bob in the white froth a little further along the beach. My mother loved swimming in the ocean; I remember her talking passionately about it. I’ve always been a strong swimmer and since moving to Sydney I regularly swim laps at the local pool, an activity strongly encouraged by my psychologist, but the few times I ventured into the open water I disliked not being able to see below the surface.
Feeling vaguely unwell, I make myself a midnight-black instant coffee and continue to review the case notes, trying to commit the facts to memory.
Abbey has a savings account, and like clockwork she withdraws the four hundred and twenty dollars she is paid every fortnight from a company called Fresh Holdings. That aligns with what Cam mentioned about her working at the local supermarket. I tap my pen against the coffee mug. It would be good to know what she was spending her money on. Perhaps she’s been giving money to her parents, as the Clarks certainly fall into the category of the working poor. Their home was purchased over fifteen years ago and is in Daniel’s name but has a long history of missed payments and is currently in arrears. Dorothy works casually at the caravan park as a cleaner, but Daniel lost his job a few months ago when the mechanic closed down, and is now receiving a benefit payment.
I wonder if he’s been tempted to supplement his income by becoming involved in something illegal. If that’s the case, Abbey or Rick may have stumbled upon it. That’s partly what happened with Nicki. Or maybe Abbey was just the messed-up teenager I had diagnosed Nicki as: a young girl who was overwhelmed and snapped. No note has turned up, but there’s nothing to suggest this isn’t a suicide. Although her online interactions appear lighthearted enough, I know full well darkness can be hidden and resilience doesn’t always turn up when you most need it.
I’m trying to summon the particular flavour of complexity that comes with being fifteen. I knew it then and I absolutely know it now: teenagers are terrifyingly impulsive and skilful at making hasty decisions with horrific consequences. I’ve had the misfortune of standing next to many fit, strong young bodies that oozed with health before a misjudged party trick or ambitious sporting feat turned them grey and cold. Beautiful brains broken by reckless drug taking or a thoughtless punch. It’s a cruel truth that vitality gifts the young an otherworldly confidence at the exact moment their emotions rob them of sound judgement. Their desire to punish can be brutal, with suicide, drug use and theft the key weapons in their arsenal. Disappearing into thin air is another appealing option to a teenage brain, a seemingly reasonable reaction to whatever injustice they are facing—but I still doubt that Abbey ran off in the middle of the night with only the clothes on her back.
I flick back to the disturbances at the Clark house. They sound depressingly similar: neighbours called the police, worried about the safety of Dorothy Clark and her children due to the sounds of Daniel’s fury. A local constable was dispatched; upon arrival, an eerily calm Daniel assured them everything was fine.
A traumatised-looking Dot agreed, and the children, including Abbey, remained silent.
This scenario has played out three times since Christmas. I read on and note that Daniel lost his job in mid-December. Idle hands are never good but, in my experience, when they belong to someone with a tendency toward violence, it’s even more important they are occupied.
Ben appears in the doorway, his hair standing on end. ‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hi, baby.’ I pull him into a tight hug. ‘Sleep okay?’
He nods and I make him a bowl of cornflakes that he carefully carries to the coffee table.
My limbs protest as I stretch my arms toward the ceiling. I really need to go for a run, though there’s no way that’s going to happen today.
Mac hovers around me like a caffeine craving I haven’t sated, but since our phone call something has hardened in me, grim and cold. Our relationship has always had an unusual rhythm; his wisdom tilts the balance of power ever so slightly, causing me to overcompensate with youthful passion. But last night’s conversation drifted into unchartered territory—a clear paternal vibe snuck in. I felt his judgement and, perhaps even worse, his doubt in me. I thought the bond we’d formed during the Mara case was indestructible, but maybe something built on so much chaos was destined to crumble. He was my rock during that madness and in its aftermath, but now he feels more like a weight. Our life together feels so far away, as though all that happiness belongs to someone else. I can see how it might be easier to take Ben and just slip away, leave the loose ends loose and simply start over. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.
Scott’s death hits me fresh and hard, and I close my eyes and clutch the back of a chair. He’s gone, gone forever, I remind myself for the hundredth time. Funny how the mere existence of some people can be so reassuring. Scott and I weren’t in contact often—before his illness we only spoke about once or twice a month—but I always knew he was there and I could count on him. That Ben could count on him. With the momentum from the funeral gone, my loneliness is intense.
Taking a deep breath, I unfold the A3 map of Fairhaven that Tran gave me. The Clark house is circled, as is another address where I assume the house party took place on Saturday night. I find the Fletcher brothers’ house too and draw a ring around it. The tiny sliver of bush behind the Clark house that was searched on Sunday afternoon is highlighted, as is a short strip on the two front beaches, the Parrot Bay lookout and the pier. Beyond that, there are acres of wild bushland. Stretches of sand dunes and endless sea.
She could be anywhere.
My thoughts lurch from the case back to Mac. My desire for the past few months to be erased creeps in until I want to scream.
It’s not even seven and I’m exhausted. I fetch some clothes for Ben, who has a shower and then gets dressed while he watches cartoons.
Still wrapped in my towel, I plug my headphones into my laptop and open the files Lane sent me. After a click, a young male voice fills my ears. ‘Hello? This is Rick. Rick Fletcher. Look, I need your help. There’s something I want to talk to you about. To the cops, I mean. It’s, um, important. I should’ve said something today but I guess I just panicked. Can, um, can someone call me back? Or should I come to the station tomorrow morning? Sorry, but look, thanks. Um, you have my number.’
Rick’s voice is unexpectedly androgynous, without the masculine timbre I expected. He sounds scared and desperate. When Tran told me about Rick’s call yesterday, I got the impression that she thought he was calling to confess something, but listening to it now I think his message sounds more like a cry for help.
I load the video file next. A small room comes into focus. Rick is seated at a grey table with two glasses of water on it, and the camera is angled toward him. Alive, he’s as attractive as I suspected.
&n
bsp; Tran’s voice comes through the speaker with trademark curtness. ‘As I explained earlier, we are very concerned about the wellbeing of Abbey Clark. Do you have any idea where she is?’
Rick’s arms remain firmly crossed, his eyes on the table. ‘No.’
‘She never mentioned anything to you about leaving town? Even just going away for a few days?’
Rick tosses his neck back to shift his blond hair from his face. ‘She always talked about leaving Fairhaven after school finishes, but that was years away.’
‘Her family say you two have been in a relationship for over a year. How serious was it?’
A flash of malice crosses Rick’s face as he leans forward. ‘I was serious about it. I dunno about her—she’s been hot and cold on me since Christmas.’
‘That must have been frustrating,’ says Tran, attempting empathy.
‘She dumped me on Thursday. I picked her up from school like usual and she just said it was over.’ The veins on Rick’s neck strain as his breath comes out in short puffs. ‘I said “whatever”, I couldn’t be bothered with the whole thing anymore anyway. And I told her I knew she’d been hooking up with someone else.’
‘What made you think that?’
He shrugs. ‘Dunno, just had a feeling.’
‘Did you ask her about it?’
‘Yeah. She said she wasn’t.’
‘Did you argue about it?’
He slumps back in his chair. ‘Not then. I just dropped her at work and went for a surf. I was pissed, but I couldn’t see the point of talking about it.’
‘Did you speak to her after that?’
Pushing his finger along a dark scuff mark on the table, he says, ‘I sent her some texts on Friday. Probably shouldn’t have—I just didn’t get what was going on. She didn’t even give a proper reason for breaking up with me, just said we’d “grown apart” or some shit. She just didn’t want to tell me the truth.’
‘You were angry,’ says Tran.
Rick meets her gaze. ‘Yeah, I thought she was cheating on me. The break-up didn’t make any sense and she was all weird about it.’