by Sarah Bailey
‘I know.’ My pulse races as if I’ve already been running. ‘I gotta go,’ I say, and hang up.
I lift my face to the morning sun, then get back into my warm-up. God, what a mess.
A sharp voice screeches into my ears, aided by the wind. ‘Are you the new detective?’
Mid squat, I stumble slightly and spin around. A shrivelled woman is standing surprisingly close, a few metres from the opening of a sandy path that disappears into a wall of shrubbery. My immediate impression is that she looks like an ageing heroin addict. She’s wrapped in a long black polyester dress that’s pilling all over, her feet bare. Strands of frizzy brown hair hang down past her chest.
‘Are you?’ she says, eyeing me reproachfully.
I shield my gaze with my hand. ‘Yes, I’m Detective Woodstock. Can I help you?’
She ignores my question and looks out at the sea. ‘It’s terrible what happened to that boy.’
‘Did you know Rick Fletcher?’
‘Very sad,’ she says, clicking her tongue. She’s painfully thin, and her eyes have sunken in her skull. The insides of her elbows are riddled with track marks and bruises.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘She’s dead, you know.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Dead and buried.’ She closes her eyes and kneads at her skull with bony nicotine-stained fingers. ‘At night-time I see her,’ she mutters. ‘What they did to her.’
‘Are you talking about Abbey Clark?’ I step toward the woman, and she reels backwards, her deep-set eyes bulging open.
‘No one believes me,’ she says quietly, scratching her forearms. ‘No one listens.’
‘I’m listening,’ I say. ‘We can talk right now for as long as you like. Please, tell me your name?’
The wind ricochets off the water and buffets both of us, picking up pieces of her long hair. She fixes her milky stare somewhere just above my head. I consider whether she’s intoxicated, though the sharpness of her movements suggests it’s more likely she’s high or experiencing a manic episode.
‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ she announces. ‘Born on the kitchen table. They made me leave my house, you know. Said I wasn’t safe on my own, but I know the real reason—they’re worried what I’ll say.’ She starts back up the path. Her Nike backpack looks like a deflated balloon. ‘Be careful, Detective,’ she calls out without turning around. ‘No one wants her found.’
‘Hey! Please talk to me. Do you mean Abbey Clark? If you have any information about her disappearance, I need to talk to you.’
She starts to run, hunched over and frantic. Her husky high-pitched voice curls out from beyond the gnarled trees. ‘Leave me alone!’
Wednesday, 13 April
7.18 am
I arrive back at the Gordons’ breathing hard and drenched in sweat. The relatively easy run has highlighted just how out of shape I’ve become since I left Sydney.
Tommy has joined Vanessa and Ben in the kitchen, his wheelchair flush against the long wooden table. He’s eating scrambled eggs on toast, the rich yellow flecked with green. The house smells of coffee and basil.
I shower, keeping the water cool. I felt shaken and emotional on my run. Even though I’m aware it’s highly probable Abbey Clark is dead, I haven’t allowed myself to fully believe it, but the strange woman’s words hit a nerve. I know I partly took this case because of Nicki, for the chance at a tiny sliver of redemption, but it feels increasingly likely that I’m simply going to compound my grief and spiral myself into a whole other level of soul searching. I haven’t worked many missing persons cases, only five over the past decade, but they are an especially brutal form of mental torment. The missing tend to take on a mythical quality; the possibility they are alive muddies the waters and weakens the practical instincts a dead body demands. It’s a bizarre, drawn-out dance between hope and hopelessness. I already know that while I’ll look for Abbey beyond all reason, that I will prepare to discover her corpse, the whole time I’m doing this I will pray she is the one who gives the finger to the bleak statistics. That somehow, I will cheat the odds and bring her home. More than anything, I don’t want her to go to the place in my mind reserved for the long dead faces from squadroom case boards, and into the metaphorical graveyard that I rake over and over, looking for answers that will probably never be found.
I towel-dry my hair, now thinking about Mac. I try not to give any real estate to the doubts that lurk in my head as I flick him a quick upbeat message reassuring him that I really am fine.
Tommy’s eyes don’t leave his iPad when I enter the kitchen. I down a glass of water and say, ‘I met a woman at the beach who knew me. An older woman with long brown hair. She was all dressed in black.’ I pause. ‘She was quite distressed and said a few things about the case.’
‘I’d say you met Meg Jarvis,’ says Vanessa from where she’s hanging laundry on a rickety clothes horse. ‘She walks along the beach most mornings. She used to live in the old place at the end of the street, but her niece arranged for her to be moved into the care home last year—only low-level care, so she’s allowed to come and go as she likes.’
‘She hasn’t actually bothered me for a while,’ says Tommy, looking thoughtful.
‘Who is she?’ I ask, watching Inka pad through the back door and make a beeline for Ben.
‘She says she’s a psychic,’ says Vanessa diplomatically. ‘People used to pay her to read their fortunes.’
‘She’s a kook,’ says Tommy, rolling his eyes. ‘And a junkie. She’s in and out of the hospital with imaginary illnesses. It drives Eric nuts.’
‘She’s harmless,’ adds Vanessa, swatting at her husband. ‘She means well but she has a lot of crazy theories. She lost her husband and daughter in a horrible boating accident years ago, and I think she’s very lonely. There’s only a niece looking out for her, and she lives in Melbourne. Meg almost died a few times from overdosing on heroin. She probably heard you were here and figured you might actually listen to her. She gave up on Tommy ages ago.’
‘I banned her from the station,’ he says and pushes his plate away. ‘I told her to keep a diary of her nutty theories and said I’d look at it once a year at Christmas. What was she on about this morning?’
‘Nothing really. She was just shouting my name.’ All my instincts are screaming at me to keep what Meg said to myself for now.
‘I wonder whether she should be allowed to wander around by herself,’ murmurs Vanessa, biting her lip. ‘Maybe I’ll speak to Chrissy.’
‘Well, I hope you ignored her,’ says Tommy, ‘she’s a massive time waster. She thinks there are bodies buried all over town.’ He tips his head from left to right, stretching his neck. ‘You said Rick’s autopsy is today?’
‘At midday.’
‘You’re going, I assume?’
‘I’m sending de Luca and one of the boys.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Wouldn’t be my choice.’
I meet his gaze. ‘It will be good for them. They don’t have the exposure to something like this very often, and I have people I want to speak to here.’
Tommy shrugs. ‘De Luca needs to be managed. She lacks initiative but I’m sure you’re all over it.’
I find myself getting worked up. He grimaces and pokes his large fingers at the screen of his phone. While I found de Luca rude and standoffish, of the three of them she certainly didn’t seem to lack initiative. I walk over to the couch, trying to remain calm.
‘You okay?’ I say to Ben.
‘Yep. We’re going to the beach today. Vanessa says we’re allowed to bring Inka.’
‘That sounds fun. Just make sure you wear your hat and have sunscreen on.’ I trace my fingers across his jawline.
‘I’ve only ever been to the beach that one time I went with you and Mac in Sydney.’
‘Yes, you loved it.’
He nods but seems unsure.
‘Tommy and Vanessa are pretty lucky to have a beach on the door
step, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I want to learn to surf.’
I give him a squeeze. ‘Well, maybe not today. One thing at a time, hey? Hopefully I’ll be able to come down and meet you later. Or we can go tomorrow.’
Vanessa helps Tommy use the bathroom, then wheels him out onto the back deck. I remain inside but I hear her say, ‘We’ll be back soon, okay? Call me if you need me to come home.’
I grab Ben’s hat and hand it to Vanessa as she enters the kitchen. ‘I’ll call later to check in.’
‘Of course.’
She crouches down to help Ben apply sunscreen and ask whether Scott liked the beach as if it’s no big deal.
I wave them off at the front door. Ben’s arm flies out as Inka pulls on her lead.
On the deck, Tommy is fussing with a bag of pillboxes. I grab my things and stick my head out the back door. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘No, thanks, I’m just perfect.’
As I turn to go, I decide to make a peace offering of sorts. Crossing my arms, I walk over to him. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you about the reporter, Simon Charleston. I assume you know him?’
Tommy grunts. ‘Yeah, I know him alright.’
‘Is he a good reporter?’
‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’
I’m fast regretting this olive branch. ‘Do you ever work with him? Do you rate him?’
‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him. He’s an overpaid gossip.’ Tommy puts some tablets in his mouth and gulps back half a glass of water. My eyes land on the pillbox in front of him. Meperidine. Vanessa’s name is on the prescription sticker and the date is from November last year. ‘Can hardly keep track of all these bloody pills Eric has me taking,’ says Tommy gruffly, shoving the medicine back into the bulging bag. ‘Anyway, why are you asking about Charleston?’
‘I met him yesterday.’ My mind races and there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach.
‘Well, I’d avoid him if you can. He’s bad news.’ Tommy laughs at his joke.
‘I better get going.’
Still smiling, he drops his head back against the cushion. ‘Have a good day, Detective. I’m looking forward to hearing about your adventures tonight.’
Feeling increasingly uneasy, I go to my car, relieved I didn’t mention what Meg Jarvis said about Abbey Clark being dead and buried somewhere in Fairhaven.
There are fewer reporters outside the station than there were yesterday. A female journalist struggles to get her hair out of her face as she grips a microphone and holds up what looks to be a map to the camera. Simon is nowhere to be seen but his car is there. His windows are tinted so it’s impossible to tell if he’s inside.
Grange’s squad car is here but there’s no sign of the others, so I keep the air con running and pull out my phone, ignoring the missed calls from Jonesy and Candy and dialling Owen instead.
‘Gemma, we got him!’
‘What? Who?’
‘Ronson! It’s all going to come out in the press this morning, but we bloody got him.’
‘Shit, Owen, that’s massive.’
‘I know.’ Owen’s voice is rich with pride. ‘We had a tip-off from my guy late last night and it seemed legit, so we sent a crew over, and he was just there. I still can’t believe it.’
‘Can you get him for Krystal’s murder? And the other witness?’
‘Looks like it. A few of his guys are talking now so we’ll definitely get him for the drugs and the hit-and-run. You should have seen bloody Jock, parading around the bust.’
‘Forget about him.’ I pause, trying to force some saliva into my mouth, which has gone completely dry. ‘Christ, Owen, well done.’
I stare at the aqua-painted brick wall of the police station and experience a strange sensation, as if a filter has been applied to the scene in front of me. The Ronson case was the first one I worked on when I got to Sydney, and even though we’d managed to nab a few of the low-level guys we could never get to Garry Ronson himself. The leads had dried up and the case had essentially gone cold. We knew he’d raped and murdered another prostitute in June last year, the third as far as we were aware, but our witness was unreliable, our evidence non-existent, and Ronson nowhere to be found. I can still picture the original case board: the crazy web of crimes and contacts, Ronson’s smiling face in the centre.
‘Thanks. Anyway, I’m still in bed, we didn’t get in until around 3 am, but I did quickly follow up on Aiden Fletcher for you before all this exploded.’
Half my head is still working through the details of the Ronson case. I have so many questions but I can’t afford to get distracted—plus, it’s not my case anymore. ‘Thanks, Owen.’
‘No worries. I don’t know if it will be very helpful. Jock said Aiden’s phone number was in the call list of the guy who shot himself and that he’d tried to call him. Might be nothing. The ME ruled it suicide and the whole thing went nowhere. Anyway, I’ll send you the file—it’s definitely the same guy. He has a brother called Richard, and they live in Fairhaven.’
A squad vehicle turns into the car park. Lane and de Luca get out, smiling and talking as they enter the station.
‘I gotta go, Owen. Thanks again. I’ll let you know if I need anything else. And well done again on Ronson. Tell the team for me, yeah?’
‘Thanks, Gem. Half the glory’s yours, you know that.’
I get out of the car too quickly, my vision turning white as I walk up the ramp.
‘Morning,’ I say to Noah.
‘Morning,’ he replies, around a mouthful of toast.
Lane and Grange offer cheerful good mornings; de Luca gives me a subdued nod.
The leather on Tommy’s desk chair is almost worn bare and I try not to think about the amount of sweat that has soaked into it over the years. I lean forward, touching my forearms to the desk, then quickly sit up straight again. The surface is a little on the sticky side.
‘Right, quick check in,’ I say, standing up. ‘I’ll go first. I know there’s been barely any progress on the whereabouts of Aiden, so I want us to dig beyond the surface layer. Last year he was linked to a group involved in couriering drugs. Nothing really came of it and I have no idea whether he was involved or not, but perhaps everything we’re looking at here is drug related.’ I think about Tommy’s bag of pills and frown. I feel so uneasy around him. He’s definitely arrogant but it’s more than that, there’s an unpredictability and I wonder if he’s always like that, or if the medication is to blame.
‘It would make sense. Maybe Rick and Abbey found out about something Aiden was involved in, and someone wanted to keep them quiet. Or maybe they were directly involved—I don’t know.’ I turn to Grange. ‘Damon, can you follow up with the forensic team today and see if anything turned up at the house that might suggest drugs.’
‘Sure.’
‘And you said Aiden recently left his job. What did he do?’
‘He ran the hospital cafe. He set it up a few years ago when he left school. It’s pretty small-scale stuff and apparently he did it all—ordering, serving, cleaning—the whole deal.’
‘It’s not exactly a key to the drug cupboard but it’s close enough,’ I say. ‘Follow it up. Maybe he was working with someone higher up there and things went sour. See if you can find out if the hospital has ever had an issue with drugs going missing. I’ll look further into the case from last year and see if anything shakes out.’
Grange blinks but nods.
‘Any other updates?’ I say, feeling a sense of progress for the first time since I arrived.
‘I spoke to the petrol-tank driver,’ says de Luca. ‘Frank Bower, early sixties. He confirmed he arrived in Fairhaven around 7 pm on Saturday, signed in and then plugged his tank into the system. It takes about two hours for the fuel to transfer. Once it was done, he locked up and checked into The Parrot where he had dinner at the pub. That was just after 9 pm.’
‘What about afterwards?’
De Luca continues as if I haven’t spoken. ‘He’s on the security footage Cam sent through—he enters the pub then leaves about two hours later, walking in the direction of his room. He said he was on the phone to his wife at 11.30 pm for almost twenty minutes. I’ll put in a request for his phone records but I doubt he’s got anything to do with Abbey.’
‘No, but his tank might have acted as a shield for a violent crime.’ I exhale loudly. ‘Okay, make sure you track down those tapes from the service station. Anyone who was in that vicinity is of interest until the blood results confirm otherwise.’
De Luca’s lips form a straight line, and she directs her gaze toward the small window. ‘When will that be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I’ll follow it up this morning.’
‘That phone number for Robert Weston is a dead end,’ offers Lane. ‘It was his UK number and hasn’t been active since he came here at the end of last year. He arrived in Australia the first week of December. He was in Sydney until he came to Fairhaven in early Feb. I dug around a bit but he doesn’t have a registered phone, so he must be using a prepaid. I sent him a Facebook message asking him to contact me but nothing yet. I also got access to his accounts so I’ll take a look later today.’
‘We need to find him,’ I say impatiently. ‘This morning I found a note that might be from him in one of the notebooks I took from Abbey’s bedroom. He was clearly interested in her, if not being a full-blown pest.’ I turn to Grange. ‘Did you hear from the caravan park manager? I really want that guest list.’
‘Ah, no. Not yet,’ he stammers. ‘I was about to call Kate again, or I can shoot down there and speak to her in person?’
‘No, I’ll go,’ I say. ‘This is ridiculous—we need information from this woman, what’s her problem?’
Grange opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything.
I sigh. ‘Lane will come with me this morning. We’ll go to the caravan park and try to track down Robert Weston and sort out the guest lists. And then I’d like to speak to some of Abbey’s workmates and school friends. I made a list from her social media accounts and phone contacts. Also, Georgina and Ian Fletcher are coming to the station at around 2 pm to make a formal statement, so we’ll need to be back here for that.’ I settle my gaze on Grange and de Luca. ‘I want you two to attend Fletcher’s autopsy today.’