by Sarah Bailey
‘So whether on foot or on her bike,’ I say, ‘she came from that direction.’
De Luca nods.
‘Right, so she comes along here, out of breath either from walking or riding. She’s possibly had some kind of confrontation and maybe her bike was taken from her.’ I lean down to adjust my sock, which is wet with cooling perspiration. ‘So let’s think about it. Why would she lie? Maybe she threatened someone with going to the police. Maybe she made up the stolen bike story because someone was watching her and she wanted them to think she was reporting something else. She could be the one who stashed it.’
‘But then it’s like you said, why would she decline a lift home if she was scared?’
I tip my head back against the seat and tap it gently. ‘Rick might have followed her from the party. All we know is that he told his sister he’d come to her beach gathering and that he was there at some point until the early hours when he went home. None of the times are clear, and everyone at the beach was drunk. What if Abbey and Rick did meet, and they argued again?’
De Luca’s lips open in a soft pout. ‘Then who killed Rick?’
‘Someone who knew what he’d done? Rick was suspicious that she was seeing someone else, right?’
‘That’s what he said, but there’s no evidence of it. No calls, messages or emails. Nothing.’
‘Still, it’s not unheard of for someone to run a relationship off the grid, especially when they’re cheating. Maybe she was involved with someone and they felt threatened by Rick. And obviously Daniel Clark is a known risk. Dot’s assurance he was at home isn’t exactly what I’d consider a solid alibi, and that goes for both Saturday night and yesterday morning.’ I watch as a tiny blue wren darts from one tree to another, performing a flirty little dance. ‘Daniel himself admits Abbey’s curfew was midnight, and we know she was still at the police station at midnight. What if Daniel woke up, realised his daughter wasn’t home and went out looking for her? Maybe he came across her walking home and lost it—bike or no bike, it doesn’t really matter.’
‘Or maybe,’ says de Luca, ‘some random kid stole her bike from the party. It might not be relevant at all.’
I take a swig of water, which only makes my stomach growl more. ‘True, though I always treat coincidences with extreme caution.’
De Luca’s warmth vanishes. ‘Do you want to go to the lot now?’
‘Yes, please. And again, we want to take the most obvious route.’
We drive a few hundred metres, then turn right. Another few hundred metres takes us to the intersection leading to the main street. A homemade sign hangs in a shop window spruiking music lessons for people of all ages, and another boasts of the best pizza in town. Several gloomy-looking dogs are tethered to street signs and bike racks. Near the corner we pass a giant pink shopfront that must be Tara’s beauty salon. Two tradesmen are manoeuvring a big sheet of glass into a vertical position. The gold lettering on the pub’s roof glints sharply in the sun. A strip of beach is visible through the gate, afternoon revellers lying in rows on colourful towels, their feet pointed toward the ocean.
We pull up next to the uneven block of asphalt that Cam called ‘dead land’. Grass pushes through cracks, and the bordering shrubs shine with discarded beer cans. The fire crew and techs are long gone; the block is empty. De Luca stares at the rust-coloured stain circled by a faded loop of chalk.
‘Is the service station open twenty-four hours?’ I say, looking over at it.
‘It is on weekends.’
‘Let’s go find out if anyone saw anything.’
Tuesday, 12 April
3.13 pm
A skinny teen with bad skin is behind the counter. He clicks desperately at his laptop touchpad when we enter, then does a terrible job of looking nonchalant. His name is Kevin and, as luck would have it, he worked the Saturday night shift.
‘Do you know Abbey Clark?’ I ask him.
He swallows nervously. ‘No. But I know she’s missing. She was going out with Rick Fletcher. I used to play footy with him, years ago. I can’t believe what happened to him. My girlfriend is completely freaking out.’
I can’t imagine Kevin on the footy field unless perhaps as a referee, but I push on. I pull up a picture of Abbey on my phone and show him. ‘Did you see this girl on Saturday night?’
‘No, nope. Definitely not.’ His voice lifts an octave and he coughs to hide it.
‘Rick Fletcher?’
‘No, he didn’t come in here.’
‘You’re mainly behind the counter all the time, right, Kevin?’
‘Ah, yep, yep.’
‘Great. I might just duck around there if that’s okay with you?’
I walk past the display of chips and chocolate bars and wait for him to unlock the door. He snaps his laptop shut and hovers anxiously while I sit on his chair. I have a direct line of sight to the section of the block where the bloodstain is.
‘Did you see anyone hanging around over there on Saturday night?’ I ask, pointing at the block.
‘Um, no.’ Kevin scratches his head in a disturbingly manic way. ‘But wait—on Saturday the tanker was parked there.’
‘What do you mean?’ I notice that de Luca is scanning the shop for security cameras.
‘The guy from the fuel company came to do a fuel transfer. It all gets pumped into these giant underground storage vats.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Um, probably about seven that night, I reckon. He signed in and got it going. Takes a few hours. He stayed in town overnight and parked his tank along there.’ Kevin holds out his scrawny arm. ‘I’d gone before he left in the morning.’
‘What time did your shift end?’
‘Six am,’ says Kevin.
‘We’ll need his name,’ I say.
‘Ah, sure. Guess that’s cool. Or maybe I should check with the manager?’
‘We need to speak to your management about getting their security tapes anyway,’ says de Luca, appearing back at the counter. ‘We’ll mention you gave us his name then.’
‘Okay, yep, great. I’ll, ah, just go grab the logbook.’
As we step back into the heat, de Luca tells me that she’ll follow up with the tank driver.
‘That would be great,’ I say, pleased at her initiative.
Standing alongside the bloodstain again, I find myself praying it is Abbey’s. At least then we’d have something concrete. I turn in a slow circle, visualising the tanker. If it is her blood, then what was she doing here? The missing pieces of the timeline are driving me crazy. Why did she refuse a lift home? Had Lane made it sound like a hassle, or was she planning to meet someone? The hypothetical jealous rival, perhaps.
Even if it is hers, the blood could have appeared in the car park any time from midnight until dawn, so maybe we’re thinking about this all wrong. Maybe she went somewhere after she left the police station and was heading home in the early hours of the morning when something happened to her.
After reviewing the map from the car, I conclude that walking along the main street isn’t the most direct path to the Clarks’ from the station, though it probably would have felt the safest to Abbey at that time of night. But it was definitely the straightest path to Rick’s place. Was that where she was going? Had they spoken when she was leaving the party and made a plan to meet up? Was she planning to meet him on the beach with the others? Abbey could have gone to Rick’s place and waited for him. But then what about the car that Jacqui Cobb heard idling near her house? Maybe that was Daniel heading out to find his wayward daughter. Or coming home from looking for her?
Two teenage girls, arms looped, walk toward the pub car park. One is clutching a flimsy bouquet of white daisies. They have clearly both been crying.
Please let us find her, I think. The last thing I need right now is a loose end. Or another dead body.
‘What?’ De Luca is peering at me curiously.
I must have spoken out loud.
‘Nothing,’ I
say, stifling a yawn. My back is killing me and I’m so past being hungry that I feel sick. Plus, the thought of having to make small talk with the Gordons tonight is excruciating. I just want to crawl into bed.
De Luca hangs up and walks over to me. ‘I left a message,’ she says. ‘If he doesn’t get back to me I’ll call the company.’
‘Has Daniel’s car been searched?’ I say.
‘No, I’m sure it hasn’t been.’
‘I’d like to run forensics on it. Obviously Abbey’s DNA will be all over it, but if there are any traces of blood we’ll have a lot more to go on than we do now. It’s possible something will turn up at the Fletcher brothers’ place. I just want to get as much forensics done as we can while the techs are around. At the moment it’s like Abbey disappeared off the face of the earth. Even if she was attacked here, it’s most likely her body was moved somewhere else by car. There wasn’t that much blood.’
‘Sure,’ de Luca says smoothly. ‘I’ll get onto it.’
‘Let’s call it a day,’ I say.
She clicks on her seatbelt in response.
‘Do you live far from the station?’
‘I live with my girlfriend on the west side of town.’ Those grey eyes settle on me again as if daring me to comment. I feel off kilter, not quite sure whether I’m misreading her or not.
‘That’s great,’ I say awkwardly.
As she starts the car, her mouth tugs into a smile. I get the sense she is enjoying my discomfort.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she asks politely. ‘I know you’re staying at The Parrot but your car’s at the station, right?’
‘How does everyone know where I’m staying?’
She shrugs. ‘Tran mentioned it.’
‘Well, actually, I’m not staying there anymore. I do need to get my car, though, so the station is great, thanks.’ I try to relax into the curves of the road but feel increasingly unwell.
‘Where are you staying now?’ de Luca asks.
‘Um, at the Gordons’ actually.’
She swings around for a second in surprise before focusing intently back on the road. ‘At Tommy’s?’
‘Yes,’ I manage through my carsickness. ‘Everyone just thought it would be easier. Vanessa is looking after my son while I’m working.’
We turn into the small gravel car park and I pray I won’t be sick. De Luca pulls the handbrake skyward. ‘Well, see you in the morning.’ She leans forward and turns the air con back up again.
‘See you,’ I mutter.
A few moments later her car reverses in a sweeping arc and propels forward, leaving me in a cloud of grey dust. I beep the hire car open and all but collapse into the driver’s seat, panting in the hot air. I’m about to start the car when I notice a piece of paper wedged in between the wiper blades. Taking a deep breath, I clamber out of the car to retrieve it.
It’s Simon Charleston’s business card. Scrawled on the reverse: DS Woodstock, we need to talk. Call me!
I get back in the car and sit there until the air con kicks into gear, hoping the sick feeling will pass. De Luca has really gotten under my skin, and as I’m mid-fantasy about dressing her down, I remember where I have seen the name Aiden Fletcher before.
Tuesday, 12 April
5.46 pm
All traces of the possum and blood are gone as Cam helps me carry my small collection of luggage from room nine at the Parrot Hotel to my hire car. Pushing the boot shut, he steps toward me, his hands on his hips. ‘I feel like I need to apologise again.’
‘Thanks, Cam, but please don’t stress. Truthfully, I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now than a dead animal.’
‘Yeah.’ He lights a cigarette and sucks on it hungrily, lifting his hand to greet someone at the other end of the car park. ‘Everything really hit me today. I think it hit everyone. My staff are in a bad way. I just keep thinking about Rick, the poor guy. I knew Daniel Clark had painted a target on his back, but still.’
I make a non-committal sound and get in the car, trying not to cough as the smoke from his cigarette wafts past my nostrils. ‘Thanks for your help today, Cam. I really appreciate it.’
His blue eyes lock on mine. ‘It was the least I could do. I don’t know what’s going on around here, but I hate that you feel you have to leave.’
‘Boss’s orders,’ I joke, but it comes out flat. I give him a tight smile and throw the car into gear.
Before I put my foot on the accelerator, Cam leans in at the window. ‘Hang on.’ He tugs a piece of folded paper from his pocket. ‘It’s the guest list from last night.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No worries. And hey, it probably goes without saying, but anything you want at the pub is on the house as long as you’re here, okay?’
I can feel the heat radiating from his tan forearm and find myself avoiding his eyes.
‘That’s not necessary, but thanks.’ My heart racing, I exit the car park. I use the hands-free to call Mac but he doesn’t answer. I dial Owen’s number instead. ‘Owen, it’s me.’
‘Gemma! Hang on for a sec, hang on.’ I have a rush of emotion at the sound of his voice. ‘Sorry, G,’ he says, ‘goodness, what a week. How are you? How’s your son?’
‘He’s okay. You know, doing as well as can be expected.’
‘Mac told me about the gig in Fairhaven and then I read up on the homicide. How’s that going?’
I give Owen the run-down on Abbey and Rick, then find myself telling him about the possum. ‘But please, Owen, don’t mention it to Mac. He’ll just worry and I really don’t need that right now.’
Owen breathes out through his teeth. ‘I won’t say anything but holy shit, Gemma, that sounds bad. So what, you’re staying with the local CI now?’
‘Yeah. It’s certainly not my preference but I don’t really have a choice. Tran put her foot down. My old boss from Smithson knows Tommy, so I’m sure it will be okay. I’ll be working most of the time anyway.’
‘Well, I wish you’d hurry up and come back home. I’m having to play nice with the other kids and it’s not nearly as much fun.’
I laugh. ‘Owen, you always play nice with everyone.’
‘I try but,’ his voice drops to a whisper, ‘Jock the Jerk is especially maddening.’
I roll my eyes. Jock Canterbury is a complete dickhead and Owen is the only person who bothers trying to be nice to him. No one else calls him Jock the Jerk—to them he’s Jock the Cock.
‘Don’t laugh, Gem, I’m with him all week. I can only think the lord is testing me.’
‘Oh, Owen, you’ll be okay. Think of the upside, you’ll know at least fifty more filthy jokes by the end of the week.’
Owen groans. ‘Just get a solve up there and come home, okay? Realistically, when do you think you’ll be back?’
The vice tightens on my chest again. I still can’t see how Sydney is going to work with Ben but I hate the thought of never working with Owen again.
‘I need your help with something,’ I say, ignoring his question. ‘The kid who died yesterday lived with his brother, Aiden Fletcher.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m pretty sure there was an Aiden Fletcher in the mix with that drug murder case Jock worked late last year, do you remember? The one where the guy shot himself but Jock thought it seemed suspicious. I think the kid who died tried to contact Fletcher the day before or something?’
‘Vaguely. Maybe.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘Jock was going on about a drug ring up and down the coast and complaining about the resources because he didn’t have budget to travel. I remember the names because I was going to help out with some interviews but then it went nowhere.’
I can tell Owen is thumbing through his mental filing cabinet. ‘Oh yeah, I remember Jock whingeing about it.’
‘Well, anyway, this Aiden kid in Fairhaven said some stuff at my crime scene that seemed strange and now he’s taken off. Plus the forensic guys found a decent amount of cash at his house, the one
he shared with his murdered brother. I’m thinking drugs.’
‘But surely his brother’s murder is linked to the missing girlfriend?’ says Owen.
‘I’m wondering whether all three of them got involved in something that spiralled out of control. Whoever attacked Rick wasn’t mucking around—it was almost like a hit.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Can you ask Jock about Aiden Fletcher? And send me the file? I’ll have a dig through and see what comes up.’
‘You could have just called Jock direct, you know.’
‘I know.’
Owen laughs. ‘Take care, Gem. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
I pull up in front of the Gordons’, jerking the handbrake into position. I briefly consider calling Jodie back but decide I don’t have the energy. Remembering the guest list Cam gave me, I take it out to have a quick look. There are only eighteen rooms, and four have been vacant since the weekend. One name jumps out at me: Simon Charleston.
I survey the house, a rustic weatherboard. Flowers and tree branches reach toward the walls as if they’re trying to reclaim it back to the wild. The front door is wide open; to its right is a long timber bench seat with a crocheted cushion, and to its left a row of small elegant trees in stylish planters. I haul myself out of the car, and almost immediately a large terracotta-coloured dog is at my heels, teeth exposed, its tongue a slobbery flag.
‘Inka!’ Vanessa rushes toward us, grabbing the animal’s furry face in one hand and laughing as it licks her chin. ‘Sorry about that. She’s been worked up all day because of the kids.’ Vanessa holds out her arm above Inka’s head. ‘Sit.’ Satisfied with the dog’s response, Vanessa says, ‘Let me help you with your things.’ She plucks Ben’s suitcase from the boot and charges up the wooden steps of the wide porch, into an airy hallway. I follow with my cumbersome suitcase.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Ben barrels toward me with another little boy, and they grab at Inka who barks playfully in response. Ben giggles, which makes me feel like crying.