by Sarah Bailey
‘Was your relationship sexual?’
He laughs nervously and crosses his arms again. ‘I’m not talking to you about that.’
‘Abbey is fifteen,’ continues Tran. ‘She’s still a minor. You’re two years older—if you were sleeping together, technically you were breaking the law.’
Rick’s eyes widen. ‘I never did anything she wasn’t into. I swear.’
I can tell Tran is satisfied she has regained the upper hand. ‘Okay. So she broke up with you on Thursday and you didn’t know why. You sent some texts on Friday. Did she explain herself after that?’
‘Nah, just wrote some shit back to me about us not being right together anymore,’ he mumbles.
‘Did you go to the house party on Firestone Drive on Saturday?’
He nods. ‘Everyone went.’
‘Did you speak with Abbey there?’
‘I got stuck into her. She was all over some guy—dunno who, probably her new boyfriend. I hated that she was acting like that in front of me. Told her I thought she was being a bitch.’
‘You confronted her about the other guy?’
‘Yeah. She said he was hitting on her and she barely knew him. She started saying all this stuff about how sorry she was we’d split, like crying and whatever, and that she felt bad but things had changed.’
‘But you didn’t know what she was referring to?’
Rick’s eyes drop to his hands, which twist in front of him. ‘No idea.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘I hung out with my friends, had more drinks. Then Bel called me, she’s my sister, and said I should come to the beach with a bunch of her friends. I went round the side of the house so I could hear her better, and I saw Abbey leaving.’
‘Around what time was this?’
‘Eleven-thirty, I think.’
‘Where was she going?’
‘Dunno. She just got on her bike and took off.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yeah, she was by herself.’
‘What about the guy she’d been talking to? Any idea where he was?’
Rick shrugs. ‘Reckon he was still inside, but I dunno.’
Tran shifts forward. ‘And Abbey was definitely on her bike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s really important, Rick—I need you to be sure.’
‘I told you, she got her bike from across the road and she left.’
‘Which way?’
‘Back toward town. I figured she was going home. Her dad wouldn’t have let her stay out after midnight. She was barely allowed to do anything—he’s a total prick.’
‘Did you follow her?’
‘No!’
‘Bump into her later?’
Rick’s face flushes. ‘It’s her dad you should be talking to. He’s the psycho. Do you know the kind of shit he does to her and her mum? It’s bullshit.’ Rick pulls up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a purple bruise. ‘Look what he did to me this morning. He’s fucking crazy.’
Tran frowns. ‘Daniel Clark did that?’
Rick runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. ‘Yeah, he came to my house and almost kicked the bloody door down. He kept saying Abbey was there—he searched the whole bloody house even though I told him she wasn’t.’
‘Daniel Clark is certainly part of our ongoing investigation,’ says Tran, ‘but right now we want to speak to you. This would be a very good time to tell us if you know anything that will help us track down Abbey.’
‘I already told you I don’t.’
‘You definitely don’t know where she is?’
‘No!’ His voice breaks. ‘I haven’t seen her since Saturday night.’
‘At the party?’
Rick’s eyes remain downcast. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did you have any theories about someone else she might have been seeing romantically?’
‘Not really. I don’t reckon it was anyone from school, but who knows? Maybe some tourist?’
‘Where do you think Abbey is, Rick?’
When he lifts his head, his eyes are bloodshot, obviously on the brink of tears. ‘Don’t know,’ he croaks, ‘honestly I don’t. But I shouldn’t have fought with her like that.’ He pauses and wipes his eyes, rakes a hand through his hair. ‘I upset her, I know. Maybe it made her do something stupid.’
‘Did she ever give you any reason to think she was suicidal?’
‘Not really, but she wasn’t herself these past few weeks. I guess anything could’ve tipped her over the edge.’ Rick bites his lip. ‘I called her a slut. I was being a prick but she was flirting with that guy and, I dunno, I guess I lost it for a minute.’
A car engine comes to life outside, jerking me back to the present. Rick’s angst swirls around me, his regret palpable. I swallow the last of my cold coffee, trying to shake off the heavy feeling.
I dress quickly and then call the mobile number for Robert Weston that I scrawled in my notebook last night. It rings out and beeps. Unsure if it’s a voicemail recording, I leave a message asking for my call to be returned. Then I glance at the time—we need to get moving. ‘Hey, Ben, brush your teeth and get your shoes and socks on, we’ve got to go.’ I shove the case folder into my bag and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. Neat white shirt and tailored pants. Hair tied back, minimal make-up. A dark circle under each eye and impractical winter boots.
At least I look professional.
Ben turns off the TV as I open the door.
I gasp before I register what I’m seeing, my hand slapping hard against my open mouth.
Curled on the concrete stoop is a large possum lying in a pool of blood, its neck so deeply cut that its head has come away from its body.
Tuesday, 12 April
7.48 am
‘What is it, Mum?’
I slam the door shut and step backwards, shooing Ben into the lounge room. My teeth crack against each other and I taste vomit.
‘Mum?’
‘It’s nothing. I just remembered I need to make a phone call before we go.’ I walk into the kitchenette, a hand on my churning stomach. ‘Why don’t you pop the TV back on, okay?’ Forcing a smile, I rustle through one of the drawers trying to find the guest book. All I can see is the demented grin of the dead possum, its row of jagged teeth, the horrible red mess of insides spilling from its throat.
I find the book and call the reception number.
‘The Parrot Hotel, this is Cam.’
‘Cam, it’s Gemma Woodstock. I need your help with something.’
‘Gemma!’ His voice is warm. ‘Of course. What’s going on?’
I bite my lip, trying not to cry. ‘Can you come to my room, please? You’ll see what I mean.’
Ben is on the couch oblivious to my panic, lost to the TV again.
‘Just wait here okay, sweetheart?’ I say, and he grunts.
When I open the door again, I’m half expecting the possum to be gone, but it’s still there. Several ants are marching toward the bloody puddle. I snap a few photos with my phone.
Cam appears around the far end of the building, his tan face cheerful as he lumbers over. ‘Detective Woodstock, what seems to be the trouble? Oh.’ He slows as he approaches our doorstep, eyes widening. ‘What’s this? Who did this?’
‘I don’t know. It was here when we went to leave this morning.’
Cam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing madly. ‘Where’s Ben?’
‘Inside. He hasn’t seen it, and I want to keep it that way.’
‘Okay.’ Cam grips his jaw and briefly closes his eyes. ‘Wait here. I’ll get something to cover it.’
‘A garbage bag,’ I say automatically. ‘A brand new one. I’ve taken photos, but I think I should call someone in from forensics to test it.’
‘Of course.’ He turns to go but swings around again. ‘This is . . . Fuck, are you alright, Gemma?’
I nod, the stone in my core hardening even more. ‘I’m fine.’ I attempt a laugh. ‘Someone aroun
d here clearly thinks they’re the Aussie version of Don Corleone.’
Cam just gives me a worried look.
I wait next to the dead possum, Ben’s cartoons audible through the thin door. The sun has pushed between the clouds, beaming down hot and hard. I feel exposed, as if I’m standing on stage under a spotlight. I know I need to call Tran, call Vanessa, call the team at the station, but I feel numb.
My phone beeps with a message from Owen Thurston. I’ve worked with him on every case I’ve been assigned in Sydney so far. He’s probably the best partner I’ve ever had; he is extremely conservative, more librarian than cop, but he’s shrewd and funny and incredibly kind. He’s divorced and childless, and I’ve been told he’s bisexual but it’s not something we’ve ever discussed. We’re close while knowing very little about each other’s personal lives.
Owen’s text tells me that a key witness in the case we were working when I left Sydney has turned up dead, executed at point-blank range in his driveway, his wife and kids less than five metres away.
I’m standing in the sun, my back to the possum, as I scroll through the cast of faces I’ve been intimate with for the best part of this year, trying to work out who could have pulled off a kill like that. I feel stuck between two worlds, dizzy and impotent, unable to do either version of my life properly. I reply to Owen that I’ll call him later.
Cam reappears holding a roll of garbage bags and two bricks. ‘Here, I think this will work.’
I help him unfold the sheet, and we lay it lightly over the possum just as my phone starts to ring.
A young couple emerge from their hotel room a few doors up, chatting excitedly about their plans for the day. The man lifts his hand in a friendly wave. ‘Morning!’
‘Morning,’ Cam manages, kneeling down and pinning each side of the plastic to the ground with a brick.
I realise my phone is still ringing. It’s Jodie, probably wanting to speak to Ben. I switch it to silent.
‘Take it,’ says Cam. ‘I’ll wait here.’
I nod, but then the world tilts. Clenching my feet, I press my heels into the ground. I need to get it together.
I cross the road and pace the empty block next to the service station. Everything is racing: my pulse, my thoughts, my breathing. I exhale slowly, trying to walk through the panic, trying to ignore the growing sense that coming here was a big mistake.
The sun beams down, and I fix my eyes to the ground, shielding them with my hand as I ignore the missed call message from Jodie and dial Tran’s number.
Weeds, cigarette butts, ants, bits of plastic. A nail.
My call goes straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, Inspector Tran,’ I stammer, ‘this is Detective Woodstock. Gemma.’
And then I see the blood.
Tuesday, 12 April
8.17 am
Vanessa pulls into the hotel car park and rushes over to us, her long peasant skirt flying behind her.
I press send on a text to Lane, telling him I’ll be late to the case meeting.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say to Vanessa in a low voice. ‘Ben’s inside.’
‘Of course,’ she murmurs, her eyes glued to the plastic sheet outside the door.
I steer Ben swiftly past the possum, bundling him into Vanessa’s jeep. ‘The front step broke so Cam’s just helping us fix it.’ I keep my voice light. ‘I’ll come get you from Vanessa’s house later, just like we planned.’
His mint-green stare bores into mine, but he simply nods and does up his seatbelt. I give him a kiss and push the door shut, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
‘Oh, Gemma, this is so awful.’ Vanessa wrings her hands. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sure it’s just a prank that went a bit too far. I don’t want Ben to think anything is wrong, okay? I’ll be in touch later. Call me if you need to.’
Vanessa glances at Cam. He’s pacing up and down the concrete path outside my hotel room, smoking and talking on the phone. The crease between her eyes deepens. ‘You can’t stay here, Gemma. Not after this.’
The tech van that came to Rick’s house yesterday drives into the car park. A trickle of sweat runs between my shoulderblades. ‘I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about it later.’
Vanessa visibly pulls herself together and climbs into her car, a big smile on her face as she turns to say something to Ben. I wave them off and head over to speak to Jason, one of the three techs I met yesterday.
‘It’s definitely blood, but it obviously might just be from an animal,’ I tell Jason as we cross the road. I point out the large patch of rust-red on the uneven asphalt.
He circles the area and bends to peer at it. ‘Yep. I don’t think there was a body here though.’
‘No.’ It’s not like blood patterns I’ve seen following a fatal gunshot or stab wound, and there’s not enough for someone to have bled out here, but it’s a decent amount. Maybe this is where the possum met its gruesome fate? Or maybe it was just the scene of a clumsy pub fight.
Or maybe Abbey was attacked here.
‘It hasn’t rained since Friday, so there’s a chance it’s from the weekend,’ I say. ‘What do you think you’ll be able to tell me?’
Jason clicks his tongue. ‘Whether it’s human. DNA, obviously, which hopefully we can match. And possibly how old it is, though that will just be a ballpark. Some of the guys in the office might be able to hypothesise on the injury and give you a couple of scenarios.’ He stands up and grimaces as his knees buckle. ‘Let me get it sealed off and take some snaps.’
‘We need to search the surrounding area.’ I put my hands on my hips and squint into the bushland. ‘Can you arrange that?’
Jason whistles through his teeth. ‘I’ll call my boss but I’m not sure of your chances. You might be better off speaking to the fireys.’ He glances over at the servo. ‘I need a coffee.’
‘There’s something else I need you to look at first,’ I say.
Jason jerks to a stop when he sees the possum. ‘Pow,’ he exclaims, ‘fucking brutal.’ He hooks a thumb toward the door. ‘And this is your room?’
I nod.
‘Jeez.’ He seems impressed and makes another clicking sound; he’s like a one-man sound system.
‘Jason, I don’t want a word about this to anyone, okay?’
‘Absolutely, goes without saying.’
Cam ends his call and joins us, eyebrows drawn together with worry.
‘Are you okay to stay here for a little while?’ I ask him. ‘Jason might need your help keeping people out of his way until the other tech gets here.’
Cam nods. ‘No dramas, Gemma. I’ve got someone covering the front desk all morning.’ He looks over the road where he must have seen me and Jason examining the blood. ‘Did you find something else?’
‘What’s that vacant block used for?’ I ask.
‘Nothing, just dead land. Sometimes people park there in summer if the front car park is full. I don’t even know who owns it—the council, I guess.’
I notice a sticker on my hotel room’s window that claims 24-hour CCTV monitoring, but when I scan the length of the building I can’t see any cameras. I ask Cam, ‘Do you have security footage along here?’
‘No, only at the entrance to the pub and in the lobby.’ He seems a bit embarrassed.
‘We need everything you have,’ I say, ‘from Saturday night to this morning. And I need a list of the all the guests who stayed here during that timeframe. Oh, and I need you to ask your staff if they noticed anything suspicious last night—but don’t mention the possum. We have to keep it contained, okay?’
‘Sure, absolutely.’
Jason returns to his van to get his equipment. A light breeze tousles the gum trees, scattering stray gumnuts across the asphalt. Was someone following us yesterday, waiting to see which room we were staying in? Watching us come back from dinner?
‘Thanks, Cam,’ I say, with a tight smile. ‘I’ve got to go.’
&nb
sp; He stares at me with concern. ‘Look, Gemma, I don’t even know what to say. I’m really sorry about this, especially with Ben being here. Are you sure you’re alright?’
‘I’m totally fine.’ I shrug. ‘Like I said, it’s just a sick joke. I’ll talk to you later.’
I get into my muggy rental and find myself back in Scott’s hospital room.
His face blends into the white pillow as he stares at the ceiling.
‘I won’t be going back to Sydney straight away,’ I repeat. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll stay here but it will be a while.’
Scott makes a rasping sound and coughs out my name. ‘Gemma.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, my voice dangerously close to breaking.
‘You don’t have to give up your whole life. I wasn’t even sure you would come here.’
A stabbing pain erupts in my chest. ‘I never considered not coming.’
‘He has Jodie,’ murmurs Scott. ‘He has a family.’
‘He has me,’ I say.
Scott turns toward me but his brown eyes look cloudy. I don’t think he can see me.
‘Look after yourself, Gem.’
‘I will look after Ben,’ I say, tentatively squeezing his hand.
He closes his eyes, exhausted. ‘No. Look after yourself. Ben loves you so much, Gemma. I don’t want him worrying about you.’
The last word fades into the relentless beeps of the hospital machines and my fingers shake as I plug the address of the police station into the GPS.
Tuesday, 12 April
8.49 am
Fairhaven Police Station resembles a large toilet block: a squat square of bricks painted a garish aqua with rusted bars crisscrossing small glass windows. A concrete ramp leads to a homely wire door. Jutting out of the left wall is a standard-issue New South Wales Police sign, which looks like a formal postage stamp on an outrageous postcard. Residential homes are positioned to the left of the station, and on the right are two storage sheds, their concrete bases extending past the corrugated-iron walls. Everything has been touched by the invisible tentacles of the sea, salt damage having eaten away at the wooden window frames and ravaged the paint. Even the shrubs, optimistically planted moat-like around the buildings, flatten toward the car park, relenting to the pressure of the ocean breeze.