by Sarah Bailey
‘Situations like that are never easy.’
We sit in silence for a few moments. On the nearby phone booth the poster with Abbey’s smiling face flaps in the breeze, and we both stare at it.
I check the time and heave myself to my feet. ‘Let’s go. We need to get back to the station to meet the Fletchers.’
Georgina and Ian Fletcher are much younger than I expected and very stylish in a casual homemade way. Ian’s blond hair is long like Rick’s, and Georgina wouldn’t look out of place at Woodstock. Under different circumstances I suspect they’d be an exceptionally attractive couple, but their grief has zapped their tans and reduced them to barely coherent mumbling and bouts of sobbing.
‘We blame ourselves,’ says Georgina, one hand clutching her husband’s and the other gripped around her throat. ‘We shouldn’t have let them live by themselves but, well . . .’ She trails off and looks at Ian.
‘Aiden’s twenty,’ he says, ‘and Rick was almost eighteen.’ His voice cracks. ‘We trust our boys but I guess we never thought about anyone hurting them, not like this.’
The Fletchers both start sobbing, and I wait for them to calm before I coax out more details about Rick and Aiden.
‘We last saw both boys two Sundays ago—all the kids come to lunch on Sunday,’ says Georgina. ‘Sometimes they bring a friend or a girlfriend or whatever but they rarely miss it.’ She tugs on the hem of her skirt. ‘Aiden has been making it less lately because of work, but the other two always come.’
‘We didn’t meet last Sunday,’ adds Ian, ‘because of Abbey.’
‘Was Rick the one to inform you about that?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Georgina, ‘Rick called us after her father came to his house. He was very worried about her but I think he hoped she’d just gone to stay at a friend’s for a while.’
‘Did Abbey ever come to your family lunches?’
Georgina blinks and they both nod.
‘Sometimes,’ she says. ‘Daniel hated her spending time with Rick, which really upset him.’
‘I knew Daniel in high school,’ Ian says. ‘I never liked him.’ He presses a fist to his eye. ‘If I’m honest I didn’t like Rick having anything to do with him—but Abbey was a lovely girl. Rick was wild about her.’
‘I felt sorry for Abbey,’ says Georgina, starting to cry again, ‘and I know people are saying Rick did something to her, and that’s why she’s missing, but it’s not true. He adored her.’
I can already tell that Rick’s parents aren’t going to provide us with a breakthrough. They clearly loved their son and saw him frequently, but their relationship existed at a surface level; their view of him seems naive and slightly romanticised. At least they acknowledge that despite Rick being bright, he struggled with school.
‘We were so pleased when he decided to start the landscaping business,’ Georgina tells us. ‘He was so entrepreneurial, we knew he would do so well.’
‘Do you have any idea where Aiden is, Mr Fletcher?’
‘No idea,’ says Ian. ‘It’s so unlike him to take off like that, but he and Rick were so close. He’s in shock.’
‘Mrs Fletcher?’
‘No.’ She pulls her left earring down, stretching her earlobe grotesquely. ‘I’m so worried about him.’ Her face collapses. ‘Both my boys are gone.’
‘Aiden sleeps in his van sometimes,’ adds Ian. ‘You know, on camping trips and things like that. He can be a bit of a free spirit. I never used to worry about it, and now everything seems so dangerous.’
‘We’re doing all we can to track him down, but if you think of anywhere he might be or someone he might be with, please let us know. We think he might have information that will help us find out who attacked Rick.’
‘I’m sure he would have said if he knew anything,’ whispers Georgina, then navigates another bout of grief. They are clearly devastated but I detect a caution that I can’t quite place. It reminds me of what Kate said about them.
‘We’d like to conduct a search of your property,’ I say bluntly.
They both visibly tense.
‘Why?’ says Ian.
‘Just to rule a few things out. We’ve searched Rick and Aiden’s place but there might be other clues at your property. I’m sure you’re happy to do anything you can to help us find Abbey and get justice for Rick.’
‘When?’ asks Georgina, an edge to her voice.
‘Straight away. A team will most likely be sent out there this afternoon, if that’s okay.’
Still gripping each other’s hands, they fall into silence.
‘That’s fine,’ says Ian softly.
I exchange a glance with Lane. ‘We have everything we need for now,’ I say. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
They stagger to their feet, Ian’s arm around Georgina’s waifish waist. She doesn’t look much older than her sons. ‘The other cop,’ she pauses to swallow, ‘said they are doing the autopsy today.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say gently.
‘Oh god. I can’t bear it. When you have a baby, you just never think . . . I mean, you worry of course, but you never think this.’
‘No.’ Suddenly her agony is unbearable to me. ‘I’m so sorry about Rick.’
Lane walks them out and I sink into my chair, utterly drained. Georgina is right: you never associate that kind of pain with your child, but from the moment of their birth, sometimes from their conception, you are exposed—vulnerable to the soul-destroying grief that only their absence can create.
Lane returns, frowning. ‘They’re hiding something.’
‘I agree. And so is Aiden, wherever he is.’
‘I’ll organise the search of their property.’ Lane trots off to his desk. I can hear Noah on the phone in the front room and, underneath that, the cicadas. The beige fan in the corner circles drunkenly, ruffling the plastic bin liner every time it reaches its left rotation.
I watch the recording of Rick’s interview again. Then, tipping my head from side to side, I stretch my aching neck. All my instincts tell me Rick lied about not seeing Abbey again after the party.
‘Hey,’ says Lane, eyes on his screen, ‘I’m going through all of Robert Weston’s Facebook messages. Last year it looks like he messaged two girls he didn’t know, just like he did with Abbey.’
I read over Lane’s shoulder. The messages are almost identical to the ones I read the other night: light-hearted declarations of attraction based on a chance meeting.
‘He seems to have quite the script,’ I say. ‘Keep going through his accounts. See if you can work out where he is.’
Lane nods. ‘It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?’
I press my lips together. ‘I’m not sure yet, but considering he left town on Monday, it doesn’t look good.’
‘And then Aiden bailed on Tuesday.’
‘I know.’ I rub my eyes. ‘I’m starting to wonder about Aiden’s alibi.’
‘It’s pretty solid,’ says Lane doubtfully.
‘The alibi for his van certainly is—we know it went in and out of Sydney because of the toll points, but what if he wasn’t driving it? What if he was in Fairhaven the whole time?’
‘Then who was driving his van?’
‘No idea,’ I say, ‘but I think we need to dig into it a bit further. Maybe the brothers weren’t as close as they seemed.’ I think back to the Nicki Mara case and my calls with her father, Lucas. His grief was real but it hid the truth, the biggest clue of all: his role in her disappearance. Maybe Aiden Fletcher is the same?
‘And if he wasn’t in Sydney, there’s a chance he was here on Saturday night too,’ I add.
‘His credit card was used to buy some food in Sydney,’ Lane reminds me. ‘And petrol.’
‘I know, and this might go nowhere, but see if you can pull any CCTV from the purchase times. I’d much rather be sure he wasn’t here than assume he wasn’t.’
Lane nods and turns back to his computer.
I have a quick look at Aiden Fletcher’s F
acebook and Instagram pages as well as his emails. He is barely active online; occasionally he posts surfing shots and sporadic news articles about climate change. As I relisten to the voice message Rick left the police on Sunday night, I remember Aiden saying he spoke to Rick that afternoon after Daniel had paid him a visit.
I pull up Aiden’s phone records. ‘Was there a landline at the brothers’ house?’ I ask Lane. ‘Maybe a number registered in the parents’ name?’
‘What?’ says Lane, eyes glued to Robert Weston’s online world. ‘Ah, no—no landline.’
‘Well, then Aiden lied.’
‘About what?’
‘Aiden said he spoke to Rick on Sunday about Daniel Clark, but there was no call between the two of them.’ I glance back down at the rows of calls and texts. ‘At least not on their mobiles. According to this, they hadn’t spoken for over a week.’
Lane turns around. ‘That’s weird.’
It all comes together in my mind. ‘I think they were using burner phones. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Their official call logs are too lean and too inconsistent. For brothers who were allegedly so close, they weren’t in touch much based on these records.’ I drum my fingers on the desk, thinking out loud. ‘So why be off the grid? Drugs? Theft? Something else? Rick and Aiden might have got in over their heads on some scheme. Abbey might have been collateral damage.’
Lane nods slowly. ‘Tommy reckons Daniel was the one who attacked Rick.’
‘You’ve been talking to Tommy about the case?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.
‘Not really,’ Lane stammers. ‘I just wanted to check in on him, you know, make sure he was doing okay, and we had a quick chat about it then.’
Frustration ripples through me but I can’t berate Lane without seeming completely childish. I look back at the constellation of information on the case board. ‘Maybe Rick knew his drug contacts had taken Abbey’s bike from the party, and that’s why he lied about seeing her leave on it.’
Lane stops to think about it. ‘Yeah, that works. They could have been following her when she went to the station.’ He pauses again. ‘And when she left.’
I prod my foot at the carpet as panic seizes me. God, I just want to find her. The thought of another horrible ending is unbearable. Worse again is the thought of leaving here with no answers.
‘I still don’t get why she’d turn down a lift home in the middle of the night,’ I say. ‘She must have been planning to go somewhere she didn’t want you to know about.’
The office door swings open, and de Luca and Grange walk in. They bring death with them: the harsh scent of chemicals and the indefinable fragrance that’s unique to a morgue.
I point to the meeting room. ‘Great, you’re back. Let’s all meet in, say, five minutes? We’ve got a bit to fill you in on.’
They don’t move.
‘What’s going on? Did something happen at the autopsy?’
‘The footage from the council came in while we were driving back,’ says de Luca.
‘Finally,’ I say. ‘Have you looked at any of it yet?’
‘Yes.’ Grange’s Adam’s apple bulges from his neck. ‘She’s on it. Abbey.’
Wednesday, 13 April
4.58 pm
‘Abbey is on the footage?’
‘Yeah,’ says Grange.
Lane’s eyes widen. ‘Where?’
‘In the main street.’
I point to the meeting room. ‘Load it up, let’s all watch it now.’
We file into the stuffy meeting room and wait impatiently while Grange fiddles with his laptop and connects cords to the dated TV unit on wheels in the corner. Fairhaven’s main street appears on the screen. Grange drags the file to the footage that was captured at 12.14 am—and Abbey appears. Her long hair is thick and loose, making it hard to see her face, but even on the grainy footage she’s clearly agitated. Her eyes are large and her movements jerky, adrenaline charging through her system. She dashes across the middle of the road to the top of the beach path where Lane and I sat and ate this afternoon before she disappears from view.
‘Play it again.’ I squint at the vision as the tape rolls again. Everything about Abbey’s body language is primal and urgent, but there’s certainly no one chasing her.
Grange looks nervous. De Luca seems thoughtful. Lane is as white as a ghost.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask him.
‘I’m fine. I’m just kicking myself again for not driving her home.’ He grips the back of his head. ‘Fuck,’ he mutters.
‘How much more footage is there?’ I say to Grange.
‘The council sent everything they have from the timeframe we requested, but there’s only one other camera and it’s much further along the street—near the church outside the public toilet—so probably only one or two hours are going to be useful to us.’
I turn to Lane. ‘Can you start reviewing it all now? I obviously want to know if Abbey appears again but I also want to timecode and ID every single car and individual that appears. We need to speak to anyone who was in the vicinity that night.’
I feel completely wired. Fairhaven seems infinite: ocean on one side, endless bushland on the other. She could be anywhere. Meg Jarvis’s bizarre rantings on the beach ring in my ears. If Abbey really is buried out there somewhere, we’ll probably never find her.
Grange hands Lane his laptop and another memory stick, along with a bunch of cords. He marches out to the main room, his face grim.
‘So, how was the autopsy?’ I say to the others, my heart still pounding.
‘Pretty confronting,’ replies Grange earnestly.
‘What did Lamb say?’
‘Apparently Fletcher was in perfect health when he died,’ begins Grange.
‘Mick reckons the weapon was a gardening tool, probably a mallet,’ says de Luca bluntly. ‘Or an axe used side-on.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah.’ She swallows.
‘Does Lamb still think Abbey could have done it?’ I ask.
De Luca nods slowly. ‘He can’t rule it out but thinks it’s unlikely. The initial blow required significant force,’ she pauses, ‘and accuracy. Mick wants to do some further analysis and tests. He said he’ll contact the Fletchers personally because it will delay the funeral.’
The idea of Abbey bringing a mallet down on Rick’s head remains jarring, but I’ve seen too many unfathomable things in my career to discount this, no matter how counterintuitive it feels.
‘The weapon definitely wasn’t at the scene,’ de Luca continues, ‘but it does look like one of Rick’s tools was missing. The killer could have taken it with them.’
‘That would suggest the killer came unarmed, which is at odds with the planned nature of the attack,’ I say.
‘Or, it could just mean the killer knew Rick well enough to know he had a lot of tools,’ says de Luca. ‘That was probably less risky than carrying something over.’
‘Good point,’ I say. ‘Though the killer still had to carry it out of there.’
De Luca shrugs. ‘True. Mick confirmed Rick had no defence wounds. Our attacker wasn’t mucking around. One quick blow to the back of the head, then three to the temple. Rick was almost certainly unconscious after the second hit and would have been clinically dead within minutes.’
I try to imagine the fleeting moment of shock before he sank into eternal oblivion. Would he even have registered anything at all?
‘Aiden knows the house backwards,’ I say. ‘Abbey too.’
De Luca crosses her arms. ‘You think they were working together?’
‘I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder if Aiden’s appearance at the house on Monday was an act. Maybe he thought putting in some face time as the grieving brother would count him out of the investigation and give more weight to the notion he left town because he couldn’t cope.’
‘But doesn’t he have an airtight alibi? I thought he was in Sydney.’
‘Lane and I have been wondering about t
hat,’ I say. ‘We’re going to dig a bit more and see what shakes out.’
Pursing her lips, de Luca glances back at the TV. ‘Do you think Aiden and Abbey might have been involved with each other?’
‘Well, they would have seen each other regularly. It wouldn’t be the first time someone fell for the partner of their sibling.’
‘Surely Aiden didn’t knock off his brother over a high school romance?’ says Grange.
De Luca lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t bother to respond. She looks at me with unfocused eyes, and I can tell she’s working through various theories. ‘Maybe Rick discovered that Abbey ran away and that Aiden helped her.’
‘Could be.’ I explain the anomaly regarding Aiden’s claim he spoke to Rick on Sunday. ‘Perhaps they did speak then but had some kind of falling out. Maybe there’s no phone call on the record because the conversation was in person. Or maybe that’s what Rick’s call to the station was about. He might have been planning to dob in his brother—and Abbey.’
We fall into silence, and I know we’re all thinking about Rick’s lost phone message and how different everything would have played out if he’d spoken to Tran that night.
‘Alright,’ I say, ending the speculation loop. ‘What about his tox? Any initial findings?’
‘Mick is aiming to get it to us tomorrow,’ says de Luca. ‘He said Rick’s stomach contents were consistent with him drinking whisky the night before.’
Grange scrunches up his face. ‘You could smell it.’
‘He also said he suspected some drug use—something about the condition of Rick’s blood vessels and teeth,’ says de Luca.
‘Where are the bloody drugs then?’
They both look at me blankly.
‘Were there any prints on Rick’s body? Anything?’
‘Not so far. They reckon the murderer might have been in the bedroom and the kitchen. The tech I spoke to said a few of the surfaces looked like they’d been wiped.’
‘Great,’ I say, exasperated. For some reason I’m surprised: I assumed a sleepy small-time killer wouldn’t have the foresight to do something like that. ‘What about on Rick’s phone? Anything turn up?’