Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  Realising I’ve left my sunglasses in the car, I head back out the front. The exposed line of skin on my scalp immediately starts to burn, and then of course my phone rings.

  Tran.

  ‘Sorry, Gemma, I’ve been tied up in meetings all morning. Is everything okay?’

  I tell her about the possum and the blood in the vacant lot. ‘We’ve got the local fire department helping out with a field search of the area.’

  She doesn’t reply straight away. I walk around the back of the building to evade the sweltering journos.

  ‘I wish you had contacted me about that. I don’t like owing favours.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Things are moving pretty quickly here.’

  ‘Yes, well next time run it past me.’ She pauses. ‘I’m not going to jump to any conclusions about the origin of the blood,’ she says carefully, ‘but I don’t like this possum business.’

  ‘I’m not taking that seriously,’ I lie. ‘It was a bit of a shock but it’s probably just kids mucking around.’

  ‘I don’t like it, Gemma. I think we should consider moving you.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’

  Tran sighs. ‘Let me speak to my boss. I’ll call you back later.’ She pauses, then says, ‘Gemma, now is the time to say if you want out. I know you have your son with you and things are . . . difficult.’

  I pull my collar away from my clammy skin. Could I leave? Pretend this never happened? Forget about Rick Fletcher and Abbey Clark and take Ben back to Smithson and . . . what? What then?

  ‘I came here to run a murder and missing person investigation, and that hasn’t changed,’ I say with more conviction than I feel.

  ‘Good,’ replies Tran, blunt as ever. ‘I’d be pretty screwed if you pulled out now.’

  I walk back around to the car park, causing the journos to stand to attention. Then the wire front door swings open and de Luca glides down the ramp. ‘We just got a call from Georgina Fletcher,’ she says to me quietly. ‘Aiden has disappeared.’

  A pair of kookaburras begin to cackle loudly from a nearby tree.

  Tuesday, 12 April

  9.35 am

  De Luca drives like she talks, all fluid movements and measured turns. The air con blasts into my face, and the sweaty patches on my shirt have turned to ice. Goose bumps rise on my arms and I cross them hoping she won’t notice. She seems completely unaffected by the temperature, both outside and inside the car, her ivory skin still clear and luminous, her carefully made-up eyes unsmudged.

  I make calls from the passenger seat. Aiden allegedly left voluntarily; he told his parents he wanted to be alone for a while and took off in his van. If it wasn’t for his alibi—his car was clocked by a toll point early on Monday morning as it drove from Sydney and his credit card has been used there all week—I’d have him as a suspect in Rick’s murder, but I still feel uneasy.

  I recall the desperation in Rick’s voice message and wonder if Aiden is in the same boat. I don’t doubt his grief, but either way he knows something and we need to track him down. I put out an alert on his car, and request monitoring of his phone and bank accounts. His parents aren’t aware of a girlfriend, but Grange is working through his known contacts, friends and workmates. Frustrated, I lean back heavily in the car seat, squeezing my eyes open and shut. Right now we can’t do much more in regard to locating Aiden except wait.

  I glance sideways at de Luca. ‘What did you think of Rick’s reaction to Abbey being missing?’

  She looks surprised. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Did he seem shocked? Guilty?’

  ‘Daniel Clark went to Rick’s house as soon as he realised Abbey hadn’t come home, so we weren’t the ones to tell him. Daniel said he thought Abbey might have stayed there because of the argument they had the night before. Rick told us he woke up to Daniel screaming and banging on his front door. Apparently he turned the house upside down looking for her.’

  I wonder if Daniel Clark’s frantic search was born out of desperate concern for his daughter’s safety or was intended as a dramatic demonstration of parental care when the suspicion inevitably turned on him.

  ‘We didn’t speak to Rick until around 11 am, after we’d been at the Clarks’. I thought he seemed pretty rattled.’

  ‘Rattled in the sense his ex-girlfriend was missing and her crazy father had just ripped through his house trying to find her, or rattled because maybe he lost his temper the night before and accidentally killed her?’

  De Luca’s jaw ripples. ‘I don’t know, but he seemed genuinely upset.’ She flicks on the indicator and executes a smooth turn. ‘And we know he tried to call her several times after Daniel left his house, which suggests he was genuinely worried.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I’ve worked hundreds of crimes where people have placed calls to make themselves appear ignorant of the truth. ‘If only it was easier to tell the difference between guilt and grief.’

  De Luca shrugs. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Clearly the photos of Abbey were fine on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘They must have been vandalised sometime between Sunday afternoon and when Rick was found on Monday morning.’

  I think of the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his bedroom floor. Maybe he got so drunk and angry on Sunday night that blacking out Abbey’s face seemed like a good idea. But then I think about his voice message—he didn’t sound drunk at all.

  ‘Did you grow up here?’ I ask de Luca, deliberately switching gears.

  ‘I’ve lived here since I was twenty.’

  ‘Right.’

  The police car rattles along, a sporadic tick-tick-tick coming from the engine. The carpet at my feet is worn fuzz and there is a rip in the pleather upholstery. We pass a strip of matching double-storey holiday homes, brightly coloured towels draped over the balcony railings. De Luca pauses the car at an informal crossing spot and a blur of skateboarders zip past. A fish-and-chip shop on my left has a giant plastic octopus hovering above the open door, and next to it there’s a laundromat called Play, Wash, Repeat. Over the road, a busy cafe spills out onto the footpath; patrons chat to each other across small tables as they attempt to keep toddlers and dogs under control. There’s a surf shop, a supermarket, a large newsagent, and a bookstore with a table of bonsais and succulents out the front.

  I notice several teenagers huddling in small groups, clearly upset. The shock of Rick’s murder has given way to sadness.

  I shift my gaze to de Luca. There’s something decidedly impenetrable about her, and I try to break through again. ‘When did Inspector Gordon have his accident?’

  ‘Once we established Abbey was missing, we organised emergency services to help out with a basic search of the bushland around her house and near the house party, but Tommy had a meeting with the regional team about increased budgets. The state minister was flying in, so it was a big deal. I guess that’s why Tommy went even with all that was going on.’

  The houses we’re passing now look distinctly less opulent. Several broken-down cars are on display in the front yards.

  ‘That’s a lot to deal with in one day.’

  ‘It was fine.’ She shrugs dismissively and adjusts the air-con vent.

  Puzzled, I try yet again. ‘You’ve attended a few DV calls at the Clark house, right? I saw one of your reports.’

  ‘Sure have. Not as many as Tommy and the boys—I don’t tend to work the night shifts. Tommy doesn’t like women doing those, and that seems to be Daniel’s primary problem time.’

  ‘I used to work a lot of DV cases in my home town,’ I say. ‘They can be really frustrating.’

  ‘I mean, why would he stop, I guess?’ She laughs sarcastically, her voice rising. ‘Dot’s never going to say anything, and without her pressing charges no one can touch him.’

  De Luca’s outburst seems to surprise her as much as it does me, and for the next few moments we just listen to the ticking motor, her breathing fast and hard.

&nbs
p; ‘What about Abbey’s brothers?’ I say tentatively. ‘They’re twins, right?’

  ‘I don’t think he touches them. They’ve never been treated for any injuries. They’re still young though, so who knows? I don’t think he started knocking Abbey around until she was a teenager.’

  I know this pattern so well I could draw it in my sleep. A male abuser often focuses his anger on the females in the household, especially once they hit puberty, blaming his violence on perceived sexual promiscuity. Other males in the household might be spared the physical attacks but are forced to bear witness to their mother and sisters being treated like property, forever skewing their views on the role of women and the entitlement of men.

  De Luca continues, ‘I could tell Abbey wanted to come forward but I guess she figured it wasn’t worth the risk if he didn’t get put away. She was worried about her mother.’ A bitterness has crept into de Luca’s voice, and her fingers curl around the steering wheel.

  Before I can reply, we turn into a jellybean-shaped court.

  ‘We’re here,’ she announces flatly, parking at the top of the curve.

  The Clark house is the epitome of a renovator’s delight. For some reason it has me conjuring up the nursery rhyme about the old lady who lives in a shoe. Muddy brown, it leans slightly to the left. The exposed roof of the lower level is tin, with the second storey set back several metres and erupting out of the middle like a wart. The two levels are completely mismatched. A deceased tree takes up most of the front lawn, its branches scratching at the house. Insects bleat like a faulty smoke alarm, and I smack my arm to dislodge a feasting mosquito.

  ‘Is it this way?’ I gesture to the left. I can’t see a front door.

  ‘Over here,’ says de Luca, walking to the far right of the house. An old Ford is parked in the driveway and I count three deflated footballs in the weedy garden beds.

  Along the side of the house the paint is peeling so badly it looks like someone has been scraping it off. A top-floor window is open and thin curtains shift in the breeze. De Luca knocks firmly on the glass panel of a cracked wooden door.

  A heavyset woman appears, with bloodshot eyes and a worried expression. She fumbles around for a few moments, struggling with the lock. Finally the key turns and she shuffles out onto the step, a plump hand wedged over her eyes. Her posture has the beginnings of a hunchback, and her dark brown hair is frizzy, forming a messy halo. Her broad cheeks are pebbled with freckles and pigmentation.

  ‘Hi, Dot,’ says de Luca.

  I hold out my hand. ‘Mrs Clark? I’m Detective Sergeant Woodstock.’

  Dot allows me to shake her hand. ‘Yes. That other woman rang and told us you were coming.’ She nervously smooths the front of her faded sundress, then fondles one of the oversized buttons. ‘Have you found Abbey?’

  ‘Can we come in, Mrs Clark?’ I say, feeling both self-conscious and hot in my corporate shirt and tailored pants.

  She drops her hand to her waist and disappears into the house, leaving the door gaping open. I exchange a look with de Luca. From her expression, I garner this is a standard greeting.

  The walls are bare and dark, the skirting boards etched with grime. In the kitchen heavy curtains are bunched at either side of the narrow window above the sink. The cupboards and benches are made of wood, and there’s a table with six chairs scattered around it, a wooden fruit bowl at its centre. A trio of flies hover around its shrivelled contents; a sweet turning-to-sour smell fills my nostrils.

  In the adjacent room two identical young boys are sprawled on the couch, their faces lit by screens.

  ‘I’ll get Daniel.’ Dot shuffles through another doorway, and I take the opportunity to go into the lounge. De Luca remains in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi, boys,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ they chorus, barely looking up.

  I introduce myself and they confirm which is Wayne and which is Chris. They have Abbey’s eyes, but their faces are rounder and their messy brown hair is without the rose-gold tint. Their innocent faces effectively conceal the damage that no doubt lies underneath.

  ‘We’re trying to find your sister,’ I say, kneeling at their level. ‘You haven’t heard from her, have you?’

  They shake their heads.

  ‘And you have no idea where she is? She never said anything about going away somewhere?’

  More headshaking.

  ‘I said she might still be at the party,’ Chris says, ‘but Mum said she went somewhere else.’ He kicks at his brother, who smacks his bare leg in response.

  Wayne speaks, unperturbed by their minor tussle. ‘Mum says Abbey’ll come back soon but we don’t have to go to school this week because everyone’s still looking for her.’

  ‘Were you both here on Saturday night?’

  They nod. ‘I had a bad dream,’ pipes up Chris. ‘It woke me up in the middle of the night.’

  I lean a little closer to him. ‘Did you hear anything when you woke up?’

  He bites his lip, his eyes still on his device. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe there was a noise outside but it was probably just a possum. They’re always on our roof—Dad hates them.’

  I am momentarily thrown by this. ‘Does your dad ever catch them? Does he have a cage for them?’

  Wayne giggles. ‘No.’

  I smile and nod, thinking that this doesn’t mean Daniel didn’t leave the early morning surprise on my hotel doorstep. ‘So, Chris, do you know about what time you woke up that night?’

  ‘Um.’ He scrunches up his eyes and nose. ‘I could hear birds so I guess it was almost morning?’

  I watch as his little face relaxes back into a video-game trance.

  ‘What about yesterday morning? Were your mum and dad both here then?’

  ‘Dad was outside, I think,’ says Wayne. ‘He works on engines in the yard.’

  I hear footsteps on the floorboards and draw myself back up. ‘We’re just going to speak to your mum and dad for a bit, okay?’

  They nod in unison again, clearly unfazed by my presence.

  I return to the kitchen just as a man enters from the opposite end. Daniel Clark is wide and tan, each shoulder almost brushing the edges of the narrow doorframe. His features are attractive: smooth skin and thick dark hair shaved close to his head. He carries a bit of extra weight around the middle but the ghost of an athlete lingers. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his dark eyes settle on me. Dot trails behind him looking more like his mother than his wife.

  ‘You’re the woman cop from the city,’ he says.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Woodstock. You must be Daniel Clark.’ I step forward to shake his hand.

  He looks from me to de Luca and back again. A slow sarcastic smile creeps across his face as he firmly grips my hand. A dark energy swirls around me—he’s like a laced cocktail.

  ‘Is there some kind of discrimination against male cops these days? Do I need to start a petition?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Gordon is taking personal leave, so I am in charge of your daughter’s case.’

  ‘Yeah, I know all about Tommy’s accident.’ He grabs his elbows and rocks back on his heels. ‘Very unfortunate.’

  ‘Mr Clark, can we perhaps sit down?’

  He yanks a chair out from the table and sits down heavily on it, legs spread wide. He doesn’t break his stare as I take a seat, de Luca and Dot following my lead. Then Daniel turns his head toward the lounge. ‘Boys! Outside!’

  A moment later the twins charge past the table. Daniel looks at me and blinks expectantly. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t found my daughter yet?’

  ‘No, we haven’t located Abbey. But we do have some more questions for you both.’

  Daniel drums his fingers on the table, irritated. ‘Go on, get cracking.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday morning, Mr Clark?’

  Dot’s head jerks up.

  ‘Yesterday morning? I was here. Like every morning. Why?’

  ‘Were you both here yesterday morning?’ I say, turning t
o Dot.

  ‘Yes,’ says Daniel. ‘Why are you asking about yesterday? You do realise Abbey went missing on Saturday night?’

  ‘There was an incident yesterday morning involving Rick Fletcher. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. It’s been on the news.’

  ‘Don’t watch the news,’ says Daniel. ‘Waste of time.’

  Looking around the dour kitchen, I suspect it’s unlikely the Clarks have friends over to gossip with either.

  ‘That kid is a piece of shit,’ adds Daniel. ‘I’m not surprised he’s in some kind of trouble. I told Abbey to stay away from him, but she wouldn’t listen. She never bloody listens.’

  ‘What made you feel that way about Rick Fletcher, Mr Clark?’ says de Luca.

  Daniel turns to her and shrugs. ‘Just a bad feeling. And it turns out I was right. He went and did something to Abbey, didn’t he?’

  We let this accusation hang in the air for a few seconds before I say, ‘Did you ever witness Rick being violent toward your daughter, Mr Clark?’

  ‘Well, they never stuck around here, did they? But I know what he’s about.’ Daniel leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. ‘I’m telling you, he knows where Abbey is.’

  I fight the urge to glance at de Luca. I can’t work out if Daniel really doesn’t know about Rick’s murder or if he’s an incredible actor.

  ‘I understand you’ve been threatening Rick, Mr Clark. That you went to his house on Sunday night and harassed him on the phone.’

  Daniel’s eyes burn with anger. ‘We had words. Someone has to bloody try to find my daughter, seeing as you lot are barely lifting a finger.’

  ‘Rick Fletcher was found dead at his home yesterday.’

  In my peripheral vision I see Dot’s eyes bulge open and her mouth form a circle.

  Daniel sits back heavily, appearing genuinely surprised. ‘Dead how?’

  ‘He was attacked.’

  Dot is crying silently. Daniel flicks the back of his hand along his nostrils and sniffs. ‘Well, like I said, he was bad news. He must have been mixing with some bad people.’

  ‘You really hadn’t heard anything about it?’