Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  I kneel down and clutch at him, breathing him in.

  He pats me on the back and wriggles away. ‘Come on, Charlie, let’s take her back into the yard.’ They thunder off down the hall.

  The easy natural vibe Vanessa exudes has seeped into her house. There are glass sections cut into the ceiling, swords of light crisscrossing each other along the floorboards. I can hear the tinkle of nearby wind chimes.

  As we reach the end of the hallway, Vanessa pats my arm. ‘I really think this is for the best, Gemma.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say stiffly. ‘But you’re already doing so much. And I’m conscious that Inspector Gordon is unwell.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about Tommy.’ She ushers me to the closest doorway. ‘I thought Ben would be happy in here.’

  The room is a small neat rectangle with a single bed and two navy beanbags. A giant poster of a waterfall is adhered to the far wall. Through the window I spot at least three kinds of fern.

  ‘Do you think this will be okay?’ She looks around the room critically.

  I nod. ‘It’s great.’

  ‘And I’ve got you right next door.’

  The adjacent room is larger and squarer, with a tall portrait window and a glass door that opens onto the side of a deck. A cluster of dreamcatchers hang on the door handle and an oversized canvas of tropical flowers decorates the wall. Underfoot, a multicoloured rag rug peters out to straggly threads at each corner.

  ‘There’s a bathroom next door you can both use,’ says Vanessa. ‘We used to run a low-key bed and breakfast here during the summer school holidays, but we haven’t done that for the past few years. I don’t really know why, seeing as I have more time now I’m retired . . .’ She trails off pleasantly, her eyes fixed on the dreamcatchers.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m sure the hotel would have been fine but I appreciate it.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ She sniffs dismissively.

  I shrug, irritated.

  ‘Now, you need to come and meet Tommy. No doubt he’ll want to talk to you about the case.’ She purses her lips, her cheery tone disappearing like the sun behind a cloud. ‘I still can’t believe what happened to Rick. No one can. And there’s still no sign of Abbey, is there? It’s awful. Do you think the two things are linked?’

  ‘It’s really too early to say.’

  She folds her arms and narrows her eyes. ‘You’re cagey, just like Tommy. Come on, why don’t you talk to him while I walk Charlie back home? And then I’ll sort out some dinner.’

  My stomach lurches at the thought of food—no longer carsick, I am starving.

  Vanessa hustles me to the rear of the house through a spacious kitchen that flows into a large lounge room. We step onto the large wooden deck running the length of the house. Beyond the deck, a neat stretch of lawn disappears into a twist of bushland. A narrow line of sand juts out between two trees and leads straight to the beach; I glimpse blue between the greenery.

  Ben is playing fetch with Inka along the side fence, his giggles mixing with her playful growling. I catch sight of an older man propped up on a cane chair under the shade of a stripy umbrella. His bandaged right leg rests on a gnarled slice of tree stump. As we get closer, I realise he is snoring.

  Vanessa nudges his good leg gently with her foot, then clasps his broad shoulders. ‘Tommy,’ she says loudly.

  His weathered face squeezes together before his eyelids spring open revealing faded blue irises. A startling bruise circles his right eye and a yellow stain drifts from his eyebrow into his hairline. His eyes rake over me. ‘Bloody hell, you’re young.’

  I blanch slightly. ‘Hello, Inspector Gordon. Gemma Woodstock.’

  I step toward him and hold out my hand but he coughs and shakes his head. ‘Please call me Tommy.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, feeling like an awkward child as I withdraw my hand.

  He pushes against the arms of the chair to adjust his position. ‘Pretty terrible. But not nearly as bad as Rick Fletcher. Poor kid.’ His hand jerks down to prod at his leg just above the cast. ‘Sorry, this thing is bloody itchy.’ He clears the last of the sleep from his throat and folds his hands in his lap, studying me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with our chairs, you know.’

  I gingerly lower myself into one.

  ‘That’s better.’ He makes a show of looking at his watch. ‘And look, it’s time for a drink.’ Vanessa’s expression stiffens—or perhaps I imagine it, because she swiftly offers me a drink too.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I say.

  I’d love a beer, but exhaustion tugs on my eyelids and I want to be clear-headed while I extract as much information as possible from Tommy. He’s been the chief here for almost ten years, so his knowledge is invaluable. I’m feeling the familiar impatience I get when I first latch on to a case: the feeling that every second is putting more distance between myself and a solve. And we’ve already lost so much time.

  ‘I’ll bring out some water.’ Vanessa lightly places her hands on her husband’s shoulders and smiles at me before she walks off.

  Tommy watches her go, then fixes his stare on me again. ‘How long have you been in homicide?’

  ‘Almost eight years.’

  He clears his throat. ‘Are there any leads from today?’

  ‘On Fletcher? Not really. Hopefully we’ll know more tomorrow after the autopsy.’

  ‘I presume you spoke to Daniel Clark about his whereabouts?’

  Tommy’s unexpected interrogation has caused all the saliva to evacuate my mouth.

  ‘We did. He insisted he was home at the time of the attack. His wife confirmed it.’

  Tommy snorts. ‘I wouldn’t listen to a word that woman says. Dot Clark will literally lie through her teeth for that man. I mean it—a few years ago he knocked one of her teeth clean out of her mouth, and she was still covering for him as the blood poured out.’

  Vanessa reappears and hands Tommy a beer, then places a pitcher of water and a glass in front of me. ‘Ben’s going to help me serve dinner.’ She gives me an indecipherable look and disappears back into the house.

  ‘We’re obviously not ruling Daniel out,’ I continue.

  Tommy eyes me for a few moments before retrieving a paper bag from the folds of the tartan blanket on his lap. He rustles through it and pulls out a silver sheet of pills; he ejects several from their casing and knocks them back with a swig of beer.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he says. ‘The man’s been screaming for Rick Fletcher’s scalp since Sunday morning.’

  Reaching down, Tommy places the bag at the foot of the chair and a strange silence falls over the yard. I can see Vanessa and Ben in the kitchen but their conversation is muted by the glass door. The daytime animals have turned in for the night, and the second act is yet to start up their chorus.

  ‘Well, Dot’s alibi obviously makes things difficult in terms of pursuing Daniel. Plus there are no witnesses, and at this stage no weapon. Unless his prints are found at the scene, there’s not a lot to go on.’

  ‘Sounds just like the situation with the Clark girl on Saturday night. There’s not a lot to go on in general, is there?’

  ‘There’s still footage to review and several people to be interviewed. Things will shake loose.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ says Tommy, sounding anything but. He arranges his knobbly fingers into a triangle and presses them against his lips. ‘It must be hard for you to split your focus between your kid and the job. I have to say, I’ve never seen it work very well.’

  ‘It’s a juggle sometimes but I manage just fine,’ I say curtly.

  Tommy lets out a loud sigh. ‘I’m a simple man, Gemma, and I don’t believe in coincidences. If you want my two cents it’s that Daniel Clark is trouble, and I don’t believe for a second he’s not involved in this. We know he threatened his daughter and we know he threatened Rick.’ Tommy separates his hands as if he’s performing a magic trick to reveal a vanished coin. ‘He should have been locked up a lo
ng time ago and this is probably the best chance we have to put him away. I know you’re used to big budgets and whiteboard theories but just make sure you don’t overlook the bleeding obvious.’

  ‘We can’t rule out the possibility that Abbey attacked Rick,’ I say.

  Tommy emits a bleat of laughter, which clearly causes him pain. ‘This is not some bloody feminist action movie, for god’s sake,’ he huffs.

  A buzzing surges from my feet to the top of my head as my face gets hot. ‘Look, I’ve worked in homicide for almost ten years and I plan to do what I always do—run an airtight investigation and get a solve.’

  Tommy’s blue gaze gives me one more intense blast before releasing me. He chuckles and has more beer. ‘Jonesy did say you were a livewire.’

  I ball my fists. I can’t see Jonesy and this guy having anything in common.

  Behind me, Ben struggles with the heavy glass door before calling out that dinner is ready.

  ‘You go,’ says Tommy. ‘I need to wait for the boss.’ His dry lips push into a childish pout.

  ‘I appreciate you having us stay here,’ I say with cool politeness as I rise. ‘I know it’s not ideal with you being unwell.’

  He shrugs. ‘Vanessa insisted. And I’m told that someone around here wasn’t too happy with you making yourself at home in The Parrot.’

  A shot of warm wind stirs my hair and traces finger-like strokes on my neck and arms. ‘Probably just kids mucking around.’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’ He lifts his head as Vanessa emerges. ‘Anyway, you won’t need to worry about this for too long. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.’

  FOURTH DAY MISSING

  Wednesday, 13 April

  5.55 am

  I startle into consciousness. Dreams of bloodied bodies fade away as I register the unfamiliar surrounds. It all comes back. The butchered possum. Rick Fletcher’s blank stare. Moving to the Gordons’. I stretch out my arms and legs, bumping into the softness of Ben, who’d obviously come over in the night. I briefly watch the rise and fall of his chest, the slight flaring of his nostrils.

  The house is silent. I realise I still haven’t called Jodie back.

  ‘God,’ I whisper to the ceiling.

  I check my phone: a message from Mac apologising for missing me yesterday and asking me to call, and a polite text from Dad. There’s an email from Owen; he sent some files from Jock’s drug case. Call me when you can, he wrote, I spoke to Jock but I don’t know if it will help much.

  I lean out of the bed, grabbing my laptop from its precarious spot on top of my suitcase. I yank the screen open and click on the file of footage from Saturday night that Lane sent me yesterday. I fell asleep trying to watch it last night; I need to make sure there’s nothing that indicates what happened to her after she ran off into the night.

  Like most security footage, there’s no audio and it’s angled badly, only capturing activity at the bottom of the ramp, the wooden landing and the area directly outside the door. The internal camera captures a decent chunk of the waiting area, but unhelpfully only the reverse of anyone standing at the counter. I press play and watch Abbey step onto the base of the ramp and walk quickly up the concrete curve before she leans back slightly, arm out as she pulls open the door. There’s no bike in sight and she’s not looking behind her. She has a sense of purpose about her, a determination.

  It doesn’t seem as if she is worried about being followed, nor does she appear intoxicated.

  Once she’s inside I can only see a reverse view of Abbey. Lane’s face is visible most of the time, though Abbey’s head and hair sporadically block it. He is clearly surprised when she comes in; he reaches for his phone and presses a button, perhaps turning some music off. Then he rises from his seat and holds his hands up in a classic comfort gesture. After a minute or so he begins talking, still gesturing with his hands before he grabs the report paperwork and begins to fill it out. At 11.47 pm he answers the phone and speaks to the caller for just over one minute. He says something to Abbey and then makes a call, which I know is to Tommy, arranging to meet him at the party. While Lane is doing this, Abbey checks her own phone, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  They walk out of the station together, and Lane locks up. They have another conversation at the base of the ramp. Abbey steps off camera while Lane is speaking calmly, his expression reassuring. He points to the car, then his head reels back a little, perhaps in surprise. This must be when Abbey rejects the offer of a lift. When he speaks again there’s a swish of movement in the bottom left of the screen, which I suspect is Abbey’s hair flicking out as she spins around.

  Lane calls to her, holding up his hands in a slightly hopeless manner before he makes a frustrated shrugging gesture and disappears from view too.

  I succumb to an intense yawn while I scroll the file back about six minutes. I pause it on Abbey’s face, zooming in until the image is on the brink of total pixilation. I’m used to looking at photos of the recently dead, listening to voice messages left by the murdered or watching videos of the missing, but in that moment, from that angle, she looks so young. I wonder again if she had any sense of what was coming, whatever that was.

  Ben stirs just as I hear someone slide open the back door. I watch his little face tensing as he processes the grim reality of another day without his dad. I hug him to me until he strains to extract himself.

  ‘You can go into the kitchen,’ I say. ‘Vanessa is already up. I’m going for a quick run.’

  He pads off down the hall, and I push my laptop aside and swing my feet onto the floor. Still yawning, I rustle through my suitcase for my running gear. The calico bag I took from Abbey’s is propped next to the cupboard; I take out one of the two larger notebooks and flick through it. I read a few poems, admire a couple of her sketches, then come across a checklist. There are bullet points about homework assignments and a reminder to buy birthday presents for the twins—paint supplies? Another bullet point simply says, Doctor appointment.

  I read through some of the passages of prose. Most are dramatic and dark, and I wonder how much of an insight they might be into Abbey’s inner world.

  Alone. Trapped in a square of blackness. My whole body screaming. I turned to ice as his hands burned me, poisoned me. Finger of fear choked me. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breathe. Eyes that had always been so kind were suddenly tunnels to pure evil.

  A small bundle of loose papers is wedged between the back cover and the last page: a few pictures ripped from magazines, some homework sheets, a receipt for shower gel, a birthday party invite and notes from friends. I open each note but they are fairly inane—opinions on TV shows and which bathers to buy. Only one catches my eye:

  I just wanted to let you know that I think you are stunning. You have the best smile. Have a great day. R.

  The writing is formal, cursive. Rick? Or perhaps, more likely, another unsolicited advance from Robert Weston. Could he be the reason Abbey ended things with Rick?

  In the hallway I pause to listen to Ben talking animatedly about his soccer team, blissfully oblivious to the knot of worry that has taken up residence in my core.

  ‘Morning,’ I announce myself as I step into the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning. I hope you slept well?’ Vanessa’s grey hair is wild and loose, and she tosses it over her shoulder as she twists half an orange against a juicer.

  ‘I did, thank you.’

  ‘OJ?’ she asks.

  Ben nods.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m going for a quick run before I head into work.’

  Vanessa looks slightly alarmed. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ I sit with Ben on the couch for a few minutes, the soundtrack of morning cartoons fading into the background as I plot the day ahead. Vanessa bustles around in the kitchen but there’s no sign of Tommy.

  ‘I won’t be too long,’ I say, giving Ben a quick hug.

  ‘Well, there’s a lovely running track along
the beach,’ Vanessa offers, serving Ben a glass of pulpy juice. ‘It takes you right into town and then you can run south along Church Street past all the shops until you end up back here. I’ve never done it myself,’ she laughs, ‘I’m not a runner, but it’s about four k’s, give or take.’

  Mac sends me a message as I slide the door shut.

  Are you up? I can talk now if you can.

  I cross the back lawn, padding down the sandy path. Parrot Bay glimmers in the early morning light. It’s still cool but the sun is making a play for centre stage and the salt air reaches deep into my lungs. I drop into walking lunges when I break out onto the beach. As my leg muscles heat up, I let my mind sift through the conversation I had with Tommy last night, anger rising all over again. He’s clearly irritated that I’ve come here. Stretching my arms over my head, I look out at the crashing waves. I think about de Luca’s strange hostility too, and I feel incredibly alone.

  I need to call Mac before the day starts to snowball.

  After plugging in my earphones, I dial his number. My limbs feel heavy and my stomach is still unsettled. The last thing I need is to get sick.

  Mac’s familiar face appears on screen, catapulting me into my life in Sydney. ‘Gemma! I was getting worried. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Everything is totally fine. I’m actually squeezing in a quick run on the beach before work.’

  His brow creases. ‘How did yesterday pan out?’

  ‘You know how it is. I’m mainly just trying to get my head around everything .’

  He looks at me as if expecting me to elaborate. When I don’t, he says, ‘I still don’t know about this, Gemma. A case like this feels like a lot for you to take on right now.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘And how is Ben? And the hotel?’

  I focus on Mac’s mouth rather than his eyes. ‘He seems to like it here and the hotel is great. Mac, really, everything is fine.’

  He sighs. ‘I’m going to be sucked into this arson case for a few days but I want you to keep me across what’s going on up there.’ There’s a pause. ‘I really wish you were back in Sydney, Gem. I know it’s complicated with Ben, and I shouldn’t put pressure on you, but it’s hard with everything feeling so up in the air.’