by Sarah Bailey
I swallow, the lingering taste of bile repulsive. Closing my eyes, I breathe in and out a few times. I need to get my head straight. At least this trip wasn’t a waste of time; I extract Kate’s list from my pocket and scan it, immediately feeling unwell again.
‘There’s some mints,’ says Lane, pointing to the glove box.
‘Thanks.’ I gingerly put one in my mouth, the cool burn soothing the acid remnants.
Lane has been incredibly kind, demonstrating an unexpected maturity. Perhaps I misjudged him, assuming that his charm and confidence couldn’t coexist with empathy.
I tell him about Jock’s drug bust and the strange connection between Tony and Aiden.
‘What Kate said about Ian and Georgina Fletcher was interesting. Had you ever heard rumours they’re involved in drugs?’
‘No,’ says Lane thoughtfully. ‘They seem like pretty simple people who mainly keep to themselves. Hippies, like Kate said. Maybe ask Tommy though? He might know more.’
I have zero interest in asking Tommy for any kind of help. ‘We’ll just ask them direct later today. Maybe they know more about their son’s leisure activities than they’ve been willing to let on.’
My phone starts to ring: Mac. I switch it to silent, watching his name glow on the screen until my voicemail kicks in.
Lane glances from me to the phone but simply says, ‘It’s pretty strange that one of those guys from the caravan park suddenly left on Monday, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I’m very keen to have a chat to all of them.’ I glance at the highlighted names again, wondering if we finally have a decent lead. ‘Let’s head to the beach and see if we can track them down.’
My phone starts to ring again. This time it’s Grange. His awkward voice comes down the line in a jumble. ‘Hi, ah, Detective Woodstock. Bit of an update for you. We’ve just spoken to a woman called Freya Hernandez, Abbey’s music teacher. We called the principal earlier, who reckoned Freya was worth talking to because Abbey often went to school early to practise music and spent a lot of time with her. Abbey plays flute, I think. Or maybe it was the clarinet.’ Grange reminds me of a puppy trying to keep his legs in order. ‘Anyway, I just rang Freya and she seemed pretty keen to talk to us about something that happened recently to do with Abbey, but we’re about to leave for the autopsy.’
I check the time. ‘Do you have her address?’ When the call ends, I tell Lane, ‘Slight detour. I’m going to speak to Abbey’s music teacher. I assume this street is nearby?’ I hold out my scrawled note, and he nods. ‘Let’s split up. I’ll speak to Freya, and you see if you can track down the British guys at the beach.’
Lane soon pulls up at a sweet little cottage a few streets back from the shore. My nausea returns the second I get out of the car but is not nearly as brutal as it was earlier.
I bend back down to level with Lane. ‘We need to escalate the search for Robert Weston. Whether he was the guy who left on Monday or not, we need to find him—or both of them, as the case may be. Maybe contact the cab company and see if you can find out where the guy went on Monday, then run a passport and credit-card check on Weston. We might need to dig into his emails and Facebook as well.’
‘Done,’ says Lane confidently.
‘I’ll call you when I’m finished here and we’ll see if we’ve got time to chat to any of Abbey’s co-workers before we meet the Fletchers.’
‘Hope you’re feeling okay,’ he says and drives off.
I open the wooden gate, step onto the narrow porch and ring the old-fashioned bell. The wind stirs a birdcage hanging from the rafters, and a bright green parrot with beady eyes regards me solemnly, tipping his head to the left and then the right.
An elfin woman with curly black hair opens the door. ‘Hello?’ She’s dressed in a white slip.
‘Freya Hernandez? I’m Detective Sergeant Gemma Woodstock. You spoke to one of my constables earlier but he’s tied up, so I thought I’d come around myself.’
‘Yes!’ Freya says dramatically. ‘Please come in.’
She hustles me into a tiny lounge room with two large cane chairs and a puffy-looking cushion on the floor that’s covered in dog hair. Dozens of photos of Freya and a dark-skinned man with a huge smile line the bookshelves.
‘I am so worried about Abbey, I can’t even tell you,’ she says, her bird-like frame dwarfed by the huge chair. Her dark brown eyes fill with tears. ‘The poor girl,’ she murmurs, clutching her face. ‘My mind just won’t stop going to the most awful places. Especially after what happened to Rick. We were trying to arrange a memorial—you know, on behalf of the school—but apparently his parents don’t want us to. They want a private funeral. I just think we need to do something.’ She traces her fingers under her eyes. ‘People are upset and they need closure.’
My mind serves me up an unhelpful image of Nicki Mara’s face.
‘We’re doing everything we can to locate Abbey,’ I say. ‘You’re her music teacher, is that right?’
‘Yes, yes. She is such an amazing girl. Especially considering . . .’
‘Considering what?’
She shoots me a look. ‘I’m pretty sure her father is violent toward her. He came up to the school once to complain about her flute lessons costing extra. And he was just awful, so intimidating.’
‘Did Abbey confide in you that Daniel was abusive?’
Freya bites her lip. ‘Not exactly, though that’s the impression I got. She never outright accused him of anything but you could read between the lines.’
‘My colleague said you were keen to talk to us about something that happened to Abbey?’
Freya leans forward again, exposing her bony décolletage. ‘Yes—I mean, I don’t know anything specific, I wish I did, but a few weeks ago she came to school early to practise like she always does, and she was really upset. She walked in and just burst into tears. I’ve never seen her like that before and I’ve been thinking about it all week. I’m sure it had something to do with her disappearing.’
‘Did she say what was wrong?’
‘She didn’t want to talk about it. I think she was embarrassed she was so upset. When she first started crying I jumped up to comfort her, and she said she was scared.’
‘Scared? Of what, her dad?’
‘That’s what I thought. But when I asked her if that was it, she said no. I don’t think she was lying—her dad had upset her in the past and she’d always been okay to talk about it. This was different. She seemed . . . spooked.’ Freya’s hands flutter in front of her. ‘It’s hard to explain but I could tell it wasn’t just because of a silly argument.’
‘Maybe she was having trouble with her boyfriend?’
Freya shakes her head sadly. ‘No, I don’t think she was upset about Rick. I taught him a few years ago, so I knew him a little. I asked Abbey if they were okay, figuring maybe they’d broken up or something, and she said it wasn’t him.’
I consider Freya. Although she strikes me as someone a teenage girl might confide in, perhaps she has inflated the trust Abbey had in her. The girl might not have wanted to admit that a fight with Rick or a run-in with her dad had made her so visibly upset.
‘When was this?’ I ask.
‘At the end of February—Wednesday the twenty-third, I just double-checked. She was absolutely fine the day before, that’s why it seemed strange. Something definitely happened to make her so upset.’ Freya frowns. ‘I actually thought she’d been generally happier all year. I said to my husband she’d been like a different person since Christmas. Far more confident. And talking about her future, asking about career options. But ever since that Wednesday she was more reserved and nervous.’
‘What do you think happened, Freya?’
She grips her hands together. ‘I don’t know, but when I heard she disappeared I just kept thinking maybe someone was threatening her or had tried to hurt her.’ Her jaw trembles. ‘I wish I’d said something.’
I ask Freya a few questions about Abbey’s friends an
d whether she noticed unwanted attention from any of the girl’s classmates, but the music teacher offers nothing helpful, unable to focus on anything beyond her sense of guilt.
The sun is hovering directly above when I step back through her gate. I slip on my sunglasses and head toward the shops as I dial Lane’s number. ‘Any luck?’
He sounds a little puffed. ‘No, I can’t find them. I looked up and down the beach and asked if anyone knew them but got nothing. I tried to call both the phone numbers Kate had, but they went to voicemail so I left messages. And I requested all the info on Robert Weston, so hopefully stuff starts to roll in soon.’
‘Okay, well, I guess we wait.’
I fill Lane in on my conversation with Freya.
‘Maybe Abbey had a fight with Rick that night?’ he says.
‘Maybe, but I don’t understand why she wouldn’t just tell Freya about that. It seems like they were pretty close. Plus, if she and Rick had a falling out that night it would probably have to have been over the phone. Based on her payslips she starts work at 4 pm on Tuesday nights and works until 9.30 or 10 pm. I can’t imagine she was allowed to see Rick after that—surely Daniel wouldn’t let her stay out late on a school night.’
‘Maybe Rick gave her a lift home after her shift and they argued then?’
‘It’s possible.’ I sigh. ‘They did break up a month later, so clearly something wasn’t right between them.’
‘Do you want me to come get you?’
‘No, I’m almost at the supermarket. Meet me there?’
‘The supermarket?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking we should find out if anyone at Abbey’s workplace knows why she was so upset that Wednesday morning.’
Wednesday, 13 April
11.36 am
An old man is perched on his walking frame next to the main door of the supermarket, an ancient kelpie curled up at his feet. He has a cigarette jammed between his lips, its thread of smoke trailing skyward.
The smell makes me think of Mac. He’s been a smoker since he was a teenager and hasn’t been able to totally kick the habit; he has one cigarette every evening with a glass of merlot. A sharp crack in his otherwise staggering self-control.
I walk ahead of Lane but the supermarket’s automatic doors aren’t as reactive as I expected, and much to the amusement of the smoking man I do a strange double-step before they jerk open. Directly in front of us, a blow-up doll sits in a kiddie pool full of Easter eggs; she’s dressed as a lifesaver with arm floaties and an inflatable ring, and holds a sign: Support the Fairhaven Beach Heroes!
There are only four aisles, a small fruit and veggie section near the entry, and a modest frozen food section parallel to the checkout. A bucket of unfortunate-looking bouquets is oddly positioned in front of a fridge door, each plastic casing clumsily dotted with a fluorescent price sticker. Ambling up and down the aisles are a few shoppers with baskets hooked over their arms. Britney Spears is playing softly beneath the slow repetitive beep-beep-beep of items being scanned. It reminds me of the monitors in Smithson’s hospital, and for a second the shock of Scott’s death is almost sharp enough to bring me to my knees.
I pause and lean forward slightly.
Lane’s eyebrows slope together. ‘Do you feel sick again?’
‘No, I’m fine. Can you see if the manager is here?’
‘She’s right over there.’ Lane nods at the checkouts. ‘Closest to the door.’
Three people are on the checkouts, all facing away from us. I head to the third one and join the queue, and within minutes I’m standing in front of a short woman with light brown skin and black curly hair. Her smile is wide and her name tag reads Min. She’s wearing Easter Bunny earrings. When Min notices Lane standing beside me, her smile fades away.
‘Hello. I’m Detective Gemma Woodstock.’
‘You’re here about Abbey,’ she says, her expression turning serious.
‘Yes. I understand she was an employee here.’
‘I’m Minella Fererra, but everyone calls me Min. I run this shop with my husband, Des. Abby has been working here for over eighteen months now. She came here looking for a job the day she turned fourteen.’ Min smiles sadly. ‘She was very prepared with a proper résumé and references from her teachers. We were happy to offer her a job.’
‘Is your husband here today?’
‘Yes, he’s out the back.’
‘We need to speak to both of you,’ I glance at the two checkout girls, who are robotically scanning and bagging items, ‘and your staff as well.’
‘Of course. This way, please.’
We follow Min down an aisle and out into a poky tearoom. A man in his fifties is rummaging through a plastic container full of rubber bands. ‘Honey, do you know where . . . Whoa, hello, sorry.’ He springs to his feet. ‘I’m Des.’
As Min tells him we need to speak to them about Abbey, Des’s face instantly turns sombre.
She gestures to a small wooden table. ‘Please sit.’
‘What was Abbey like as a worker?’ I ask.
‘Very good,’ Min replies and looks to Des, who nods. ‘She never lets us down. She works three shifts every week and, apart from a few shifts in March, she never even called in sick. I had her help with the ordering sometimes, she was very mature.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asks Lane.
Min drops her eyes and fiddles with her rings. ‘On Saturday. Her shift was 8 am until 3 pm. I just waved her off and said I’d see her on Tuesday. I couldn’t believe it when I heard she was missing—it’s just terrible.’
Lane clears his throat and says, ‘How did Abbey seem on Saturday?’
‘A little quiet. Not that I thought anything of it at the time, but I don’t think she seemed like herself. Earlier in the year she was so happy, then these past few weeks she’s been a bit flat. Last Tuesday I asked her to run some supplies over to the cafes and the pub, but she said she’d hurt her leg. She seemed quite upset about it.’
I exchange a look with Lane, confirming this is the first he’s heard of the injury as well. Surely Abbey couldn’t have ridden her bike to the party if her leg was sore.
‘Could you see an injury?’ I ask.
‘No, and when I asked her about it—after I sent one of the others off to deliver the stock—she definitely didn’t want to talk about it. I just assumed it was her dad again.’
‘Again?’
‘Yes. Abbey often had bruises. She always said they were from sport, but I’ve long suspected her father. We used to be friendly with Dot, that’s partly why I was so keen to hire Abbey.’ Min fusses with her hands before she looks at me imploringly. ‘It was our way of helping.’
Getting Abbey out of that hellhole of a house would have been a much better way to help her, but Min was hardly alone in doling out the metaphorical bandaids.
‘Abbey worked a shift here every Tuesday afternoon into the evening, is that right?’
Min’s gaze drifts to the roster hanging on the wall. ‘Yep, she works Tuesdays and Thursdays after school until close, and Saturdays plus extra shifts in the holidays.’
‘Do you recall anything that took place during one of her Tuesday shifts about five weeks ago?’
Min’s faint eyebrows draw together. ‘Like what?’
‘Unfortunately I can’t be more specific, we’re just keen to know if anything happened that seemed out of the ordinary.’
‘Do you know the date?’ She strains to get to her feet as she shuffles over to the roster.
‘Tuesday twenty-second February.’
After flipping a few pages, Min trails her finger along the paper. ‘Abbey worked that day with Erin. You were here too, Desi.’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing stands out. I’m normally out the back checking the stock on Tuesdays. We get most of our deliveries that day and we despatch orders too, so there’s generally a fair bit to work through.’
‘Apparently Abbey was quite upset the next morning, so we wondered if somethin
g might have gone awry at work.’
Min and Des continue to look bewildered, and I smother a sigh. ‘What time was her shift that day?’
‘Same as always, 4 to 9 pm,’ says Min.
‘So, straight after school?’
‘Yes, we structured the shifts so the younger kids could work here. We have a few part-timers, local mums mainly, to support us during the day, then the girls come here straight from school and get changed into their uniforms. For a five-hour shift they each get a twenty-minute break either at 6 pm or 6.20 pm.’
‘How does she get to work?’
‘Sometimes her boyfriend drives her. Lately she’s been coming on her bike.’
‘And so she rides home?’ says Lane.
Min and Des exchange a look. ‘Yes. It’s not far, and to be honest I’ve never thought about it. I guess I think of Fairhaven as a safe place.’
‘Do you have internal security cameras?’
Nodding, Min draws herself upright, clearly pleased at finally being able to answer something in the affirmative. ‘We have them on the main doors and the check-out area, and we have one over the safe.’ She points. ‘Just there.’
We all turn to look at the black shiny eye of the lens.
‘How long do you keep the footage?’ asks Lane.
She deflates slightly. ‘Only a week.’
No one speaks for a moment, and I glance around the small room. Through the door next to the fridge I see a stockroom area with boxes piled high in rows. I look at Des; his head is bent forward revealing the early stages of baldness, and his knee bobs up and down involuntarily. My instincts tell me he is a good man.
But he was here that night—did he do something to upset Abbey?
‘Did you speak to Abbey much, Mr Fererra?’
His eyebrows bounce upward. ‘No, not really. I was nice to her, of course, but I left all the staff management to Min. I don’t understand teenage girls. But we’ve been lucky, really. All our staff are very reliable, never give us any trouble, so I just let them do their thing. It’s a small town,’ he adds. ‘We know most of our customers, and everyone is very nice. And then on the holidays it’s so busy that there’s no time to talk anyway.’