by Sarah Bailey
‘I can’t really discuss it,’ I say apologetically. ‘Have you spoken to Dot today?’
Joy bends her elbows, placing her hands on ample hips. ‘Oh, just the usual. A hello, and of course I said I was sorry to hear about her girl. Dot’s not a big talker though, which is fair enough.’ She picks up a pile of discarded linen and bundles it into a hamper. ‘Plus, what do you say about something like that? You can really only pray.’
I thank Joy and make my way to the laundry. A lone light globe is trying its best to illuminate the dark room, which is thick with artificial fragrance and lint. The solemn faces of the whirring washing machines stare out at me as I call Dot’s name and poke my head into the side rooms trying to find her. I turn to go back outside just as she appears in the doorway, her hunched form silhouetted, bucket in one hand, mop in the other.
‘Oh!’ Her hand flies to her throat.
‘Hi, Dot. You remember me from the other day? Detective Woodstock. Sorry to turn up at your work like this, but I’m keen to talk to you alone.’
She recovers from her surprise and shuffles over to the sink, placing all the cleaning tools down before she faces me. Her chest heaves with a steady wheeze.
‘This is your first day back?’ I ask, trying to ease her into conversation. I’m desperate to be the one who can help her find the courage to admit the truth. I never quite managed to connect with Nicki’s mum, Deirdre. Ultimately she didn’t trust me enough to confide in me, to tell me she suspected her husband knew more than he was letting on.
Dot’s head moves up and down as she fusses with the hem of her oversized T-shirt. ‘Yeah. We need the money.’
‘Remind me what Daniel does for work?’
She blinks. ‘He’s a mechanic but the shop closed down so he’s just doing odd jobs at the moment. We get the dole too.’
‘Must be tough,’ I say, wondering why she hasn’t asked me about her daughter.
She sighs heavily, and shrugs. She looks exhausted.
‘Dot, I’m sorry but there’s still no sign of Abbey.’
‘Yeah.’ Her hands are trembling.
‘We’re obviously doing everything we can to find your daughter.’
‘Yeah.’ Her eyes go to the floor.
‘I want to ask you some questions.’
‘Thought you already did.’
‘Sometimes it’s worth going over things again. Sometimes people remember things differently.’
She juts her chin out in a non-committal gesture but she won’t look me in the eye.
‘You and Daniel stayed home with your sons on Saturday evening after Abbey went out?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Daniel was definitely home all night?’
‘Where else would he be?’
‘It’s just important for us to be sure.’
‘He was up early in the morning,’ she says, after a moment. ‘He was the one who realised Abbey was missing. He saw she wasn’t in her room and her bed was still made.’
‘And you’re certain she didn’t come home during the night?’
‘I was asleep,’ says Dot stiffly. ‘But I didn’t hear anything.’
‘And Daniel was definitely home on Monday morning?’ I ask more firmly. ‘At around six?’
‘Yes,’ she says, her voice wavering.
‘Daniel and Abbey argued on Saturday night, didn’t they?’
Dot wipes her nose and scratches at her shoulder, her eyes anywhere but on me. ‘They always argued, it was no big deal.’
‘I think it was a big deal. A few people told us it was really heated, that maybe it was a bit worse than normal.’
Her head jerks up, eyes gleaming. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her lately. She was angry, talking back to him, and I begged her to leave it alone but she wouldn’t listen.’ Tears spill from her eyes. ‘She hit him.’
‘Abbey hit Daniel?’
Dot nods as her jaw clenches furiously and tears run down her face. ‘She knows better than to wind him up like that.’
‘What did Daniel do?’
She falters a little before saying, ‘He got really mad and she just left.’ Her voice shakes and she wipes the tears from her face. ‘He started drinking.’
‘Dot, is there a chance your husband did something to Abbey later that night? He might have thought she deserved it after lashing out like that.’
Straightening her back, Dot sniffs loudly; confession time is clearly over. ‘I don’t see how. He was at home with me all night.’ She puts the bucket in the sink and turns on the tap. ‘I have to get back to the cabins,’ she says over the running water. ‘Kate won’t pay me past two, and I have lots of rooms to get through.’
‘Dot, let me help you. If Daniel has done something I can help protect you and your children. You will be safe.’
She looks at me with a mix of disdain and fury, her hands repeatedly gripping the mop, her knuckles bone-white. ‘My husband has a temper, everyone knows that, but he loves his family.’
‘Sometimes that’s not enough. I just want you to know you have options. I want you to feel safe.’
‘Yeah? Maybe I don’t want your options. Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me.’ She pauses before saying firmly, ‘Daniel was home with me on Saturday night and on Monday morning.’ Her voice drops to a whisper and her lips tremble. ‘We just want our daughter back.’
‘I’ve read the reports, Dot. Even if Abbey comes home, I know what happens when Daniel loses his temper. You don’t have to put up with that.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she hisses, her hands hovering around her ears. ‘I don’t want your help.’
‘Okay,’ I say, backing away. ‘Okay, Dot. I’m going.’ I feel hollowed out as I watch her shadowed against the wall in the dim light, struggling with the heavy bucket. ‘Just one more quick question and then I’ll go.’
‘What is it?’ she says wearily, an eyebrow raised, and I get a glimpse of the woman she could be if given half a chance.
‘Abbey’s bike. She said it was a gift from Daniel. Was that something she asked for? I understand it was quite expensive.’
Dot looks confused. ‘Daniel hated her having that bike. He didn’t buy it, she did.’
Thursday, 14 April
9.08 am
I wait for William Mayne and his mates in the communal area just before 9 am, calling the two mobile numbers from Kate’s sheet several times. Frustrated, I call Lane. ‘They’re not here,’ I say, stepping into the shade of a tree.
‘I told them to meet you there at nine,’ he confirms. ‘Maybe they’re still asleep?’
‘Maybe.’ I sigh. ‘I’ll check with Kate. Hey, also, I just spoke to Dot Clark. She said Abbey bought that bike herself. Daniel apparently had nothing to do with it.’
‘That’s weird,’ says Lane.
‘I wonder why she told you Daniel bought it?’
‘No idea.’ He sounds mystified.
‘They’re not here,’ says Kate, charging past as I hang up. ‘I saw them leave for the beach about half an hour ago. They had their boards. I don’t blame them, there’s great surf today.’
Furious, I storm back to the car trying William’s number again. I direct the car toward the beach when Grange calls. ‘Yes?’ I snap, having zero patience for his dithering today.
‘I’m at the hospital but the doctor, Eric, says he is very uncomfortable about giving out patient information.’
‘For god’s sake,’ I exclaim. ‘Rick’s dead and Abbey is missing.’
‘Yes, I know, but he’s saying there is still a level of professional—’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ I snap. ‘I want to speak to Doctor Sheffield anyway.’ I hang up.
The automatic doors of the hospital open, and Meg Jarvis steps out.
‘Hello,’ I say.
Her gaze sharpens and she steps back, her strange robe-like clothes flowing, panic all over her face.
‘Meg? I’m glad I bumped into you.’
The
doors strain to close around us, jerking strangely. Meg simply looks at me, her cloudy gaze extremely disconcerting.
‘I’d like to talk to you about what you said to me on the beach the other morning. Do you want to come to the station? Or I can meet you somewhere.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know you,’ she mutters.
‘Wait,’ I call out as she pushes past me. ‘Meg, please!’
She rushes away from me in the direction of the Gordons’.
‘Detective Woodstock.’
I spin around to see Doctor Eric Sheffield holding his hand out toward me.
‘Do you treat Meg Jarvis?’ I say. ‘Is she your patient?’
‘I know Meg,’ he replies diplomatically, rocking back on the balls of his feet. He’s in tailored shorts and a formal shirt, his tanned calves bulging.
‘What was she doing here?’
He smiles, revealing teeth so white they are almost blue. ‘I see we’re launching into the patient confidentiality conversation right off the bat.’ He takes my arm. ‘Come this way—Damon is in here.’ Eric walks quickly and applies more pressure to his grip than I think is necessary. I tug myself free and follow him past the reception, where a petite nurse with glittery green eyeshadow is on the phone, and into a small office. Grange is perched on the edge of an armless beige padded chair.
Eric rounds the desk and sits heavily in a plush leather office chair, wheeling it forward. He makes a pyramid with his tanned fingers. ‘It’s good to meet you properly, Detective Woodstock. I meant to introduce myself earlier this week but it’s been busy here, and I had to help my wife, Tara, deal with some issues at the salon. Plus, I’m about,’ he checks his watch, ‘seven hours away from two days off. I’m taking my eldest son camping before the madness of Easter.’
‘You run the hospital?’
‘Yes. I had my own practice here for about five years, but I was the only GP and I was always keen to develop something more substantial. For some time there was talk of a public hospital being built, but I don’t know how likely it ever was to be greenlit. My mother died about ten years ago and suddenly I had the means, so the pipedream became a reality. It was a huge outlay, so I hope it will be worth it.’
‘How many beds do you have?’
‘Only ten but we can accommodate more. Our business is all about summer and school holidays, as you can imagine, and we churn through a lot of out-patients. I have three GPs on staff. We don’t do maternity or high-risk surgery, but who knows? I have big dreams.’ He smiles. ‘The tourist population is growing, which helps.’
‘It all sounds very positive—and expensive,’ I say. ‘But as I know Constable Grange already explained, we need your help. We believe Abbey Clark either made or attended a doctor’s appointment before she disappeared, and we think it might be helpful to understand what it was about. We’d appreciate anything you can tell us.’
He folds his hands and places them on the desk. ‘Yes, and as I already explained, I am absolutely not going to comment on that. It’s confidential and I’m almost certain you don’t have a warrant.’
‘Can you confirm she was a patient here?’
‘Most Fairhaven residents are,’ Eric replies evenly. ‘The nearest GP is over thirty kilometres away.’
‘What about Rick Fletcher?’
He seems to hesitate. ‘Rick was never treated here. I feel comfortable to confirm that. Fit, healthy young men tend to avoid me like the plague.’
‘But not fit, healthy young women?’
‘No comment.’
I meet his gaze, his dark eyes steady behind his glasses. ‘I assume you never treated Abbey Clark for an injury you suspected may have been the result of abuse?’
He sighs. ‘I have heard the rumours like everyone else—but no, I never felt compelled to report anything.’
‘Young girls tend to seek medical advice for only a handful of reasons.’ I list them on my fingers: pregnancy, contraception, sexual disease or mental health. ‘It would be helpful if we could narrow down what was going on with Abbey around the time she went missing.’
He looks at me and then at Grange. ‘I’m sorry, Detective Woodstock, I want nothing more than for Abbey to be located and I appreciate it’s frustrating, but I have been tangled up in a situation like this before. As I told Damon, I’m simply not willing to go there again. It’s critical that this community trust me and trust my staff. If you get a warrant or there is an inquest down the road, I may reconsider my position.’
We lock eyes for several moments. I know he won’t budge and, as irritated as I am, I know if I were in his position I would behave in exactly the same way.
‘Aiden Fletcher works for you,’ I say, changing tack.
‘He did. He said he wanted to do some other work—with his brother, I think, and some job he mentioned in Sydney.’
‘Did that bother you?’
Eric shrugs. ‘No, not at all. After three years it makes sense. Plus, Aiden organised a replacement so we haven’t really missed a beat.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Zach Dickson.’
‘And what is the role, exactly?’
‘Well, with Aiden it evolved over time. He started out manning the canteen. It’s only open during visiting hours, 4 pm to 6 pm, and now some schoolkids do that. He managed a lot of the general logistics. He liaised with council about waste disposal, and even helped me out with some of our utility and insurance contracts. He’s a smart kid. I guess his role could be described as operational.’
‘Did he have access to drugs?’
Eric leans back like I’ve slapped him. Grange clears his throat nervously. ‘No, of course not. Aiden managed the pharma deliveries on Tuesdays, and now Zach does it. But I check off the inventory and we scan it in. It’s a very rigid system for obvious reasons.’
‘So you sign it all in and out?’
‘Yes, I sign in every drug for the hospital and the pharmacy, and I make sure it matches our original order. My signature of receipt is then faxed back to the drug company.’ Eric’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he glances at his watch. ‘Look, Detective Woodstock, why don’t you come here after the long weekend and I can take you through the process?’
‘We just might do that,’ I say. ‘And in the meantime, if you think of any way that drugs might be being taken from your hospital without your knowledge, you’ll let me know.’
Eric eyes me stonily. ‘Will do.’
He comes around to open the door, and Grange looks relieved to be ushered out.
‘Tara tells me you’re staying at the Gordons’,’ Eric says conversationally.
‘That’s right,’ I say quietly, aware that Grange is within earshot.
‘How is Tommy getting on?’ Eric asks.
‘He seems better. You treated him after his accident?’
To my surprise, Eric laughs. ‘A genuine nightmare patient.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s very stubborn, as I’m sure you’ve picked up.’
I smile, glad to break the ice a little. ‘I’m told he wasn’t going to come in at all.’
‘No.’ Eric seems to hesitate, then says, ‘Good thing he did though. He wasn’t in great shape. Anyway, I really need to push on. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’
I step to the door and hold out my hand.
‘Good luck with your investigation.’ He shakes it firmly and then pauses.
‘What?’
‘Have you had your iron levels checked recently?’ His eyes rake over me, dissecting. ‘Sorry, it’s a bad habit, diagnosing people on the run.’ He holds his hands up. ‘Just look after yourself, Detective, okay?’
My chest tightens at his patronising tone. ‘I also need to check your whereabouts on Monday morning. Can anyone confirm where you were?’
He exhales through pursed lips and crosses his arms, biceps bulging. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, please.’
Sighing, he says, ‘I was at home with my family, then I
came in to catch up on some paperwork. Tara can confirm it.’
‘What time did you leave the house?’
‘Around 6 am.’
‘And did anyone see you here?’
‘I’m not sure. But I’ll be on the security cameras—I can arrange for footage to be sent to you if you need it.’
‘That would be good, thanks. Do you know what else would be helpful?’ I ask, stepping away from him. ‘Copies of all your drug orders, along with the hospital’s latest financial statements.’
Eric bristles, his jaw hardening. ‘Is that really necessary? I don’t see what our business has to do with your investigation.’
I stalk across the reception area, Grange trailing behind me, and call out to Eric over my shoulder. ‘Well, I guess that’s what we’ll find out.’
Thursday, 14 April
11.46 am
Grange and I get several odd looks as we make our way along the beach, just above the rows of sunbakers. The scent of sunscreen mixes with the smell of fish guts wafting from the pier. I can hear the tinkle of an ice-cream truck approaching, and several kids lift their heads in response. Grange struggles along behind me in his standard-issue police boots but I don’t slow down. The scene at the hospital has fired me up—I need to direct my rage somewhere.
A young mother with two chubby toddlers wearing head-to-toe lycra fixes her gaze on us, and I try to give her a reassuring smile. There are about a hundred people on the stretch of beach in front of the shops. Under different circumstances I’d be tempted to take a photo. Even I know that this is about as good as it gets: the white sand unblemished, the sky a bold blue, the glow of the sun locking the perfection in place. An old-school boombox is wedged in the sand, a breezy pop song swirling through the air. The waves reach for the sunbakers, crashing about twenty metres from the shore before lapping in giant semicircles on the lower stretch of sand.
Holding a hand above my brow, I scan past a trio of girls in gravity-defying bikinis to where a crew of young men are playing cricket. The redhead comically bowls, and his mate holding the bat swings wide and misses to a chorus of jeers. Three surfboards lie on the sand near a pile of towels. I detect English accents and recognise one of men from de Luca’s sleuthing.