Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  I’m barely listening to her as I step sideways and run my eyes up the length of the window. ‘What did you do with the brick? Do you still have it?’

  She looks at me blankly. ‘I have no idea, but Eric might know. I can call him . . .?’

  ‘Tara, has anything like this ever happened before? Has anyone ever vandalised your house?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She falters, looking horrified. Her arched eyebrows struggle to penetrate her rigid forehead. Then she squares her shoulders and says, ‘Eric’s a doctor. We are highly respected members of this community. Do you know how much we do for—’

  But I am already heading back to my car.

  Friday, 15 April

  9.14 am

  On the way to the station I realise I left my work phone at the Gordons’. Vanessa’s car isn’t in the driveway, and I vaguely remember her asking me if Ben could come with her to take Tommy to an appointment at the hospital today.

  Except for the hum of the dishwasher, the house is silent. Inka stares at me mournfully from the back door and whines sharply. My pulse picks up and I become aware of a faint ringing. Is it coming from the fridge? Inexplicably jumpy, I grab my phone from my bedroom and turn to go. I pause in the sunlit hallway, knowing what I’m about to do before I’ve even processed it properly.

  The door to Vanessa and Tommy’s ensuite is slightly ajar and I push on it, exposing the mirrored cabinet unit. I open the cupboards and scan an array of bathroom products before yanking open each drawer. The middle drawer is full of prescription boxes. There must be at least fifteen of them. The bottom drawer is the same: valium, oxycodone, alprazolam.

  Bending down, I carefully pick up one of the boxes—prescribed by Doctor Eric Sheffield and dated November last year. Way before Tommy’s accident. I pick up another; this one has Vanessa’s name on it and the date stamp reads January. Another of the boxes is prescribed to a Kevin Gordon by a doctor in Byron Bay, while one box of valium has Kai Lane’s details on it and was prescribed by Eric.

  A little montage quickly forms and plays in my mind. Tommy’s glassy-eyed stare. His vagueness. His constant pill-popping. Simon Charleston’s knitted brows, and Eric’s cryptic inquiry into Tommy’s health at the hospital.

  The walls seem to close in as I stare at the contents of the drawer. What the hell is going on?

  Is Tommy involved in some kind of drug dealing? Is he stockpiling drugs and selling them? Is Eric somehow connected to this? I look back at the pillboxes. Is Lane?

  I stand up and feel the blood lurch around my body. As the dizziness dissipates, I consider my refection in the mirror. I look terrible. I wonder what it would be like to just throw back a couple of the little white pills. Would they take away the throbbing pain that has consumed me since Scott fell ill? Would they block out all the noise? The ringing in my head?

  I shove the box back in with the others. No. It might make things easier for me but it certainly won’t make things easier for Ben.

  ‘Fuck this,’ I say, kicking the drawer shut and storming out of the house.

  I work myself into a lather of anger as I drive back into town. Everyone I encounter in this place seems to be hiding something, and I’m jack of it.

  Mac’s face bubbles up in my mind. And I swiftly force it down again.

  I park outside the supermarket, where I purchase a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from Roxy without making eye contact. A few hundred metres from the police station, I pull over at the end of the bush path and fumble with the plastic wrap as I get out of the car.

  I picture Abbey here on Saturday night. Was Rick with her? Were they tangled up in drugs and working together until something went bad? Had they threatened to blow the lid off the whole thing? I light the cigarette and stare up at the sky. And what about Lane? What’s his role in all this?

  My memories begin as a trickle and then flood in: Nicki Mara’s battered body, her sightless eyes. Mac holding me back as I tried to get closer to her. Owen’s crushed expression.

  The notion that Abbey is somewhere close by, broken and rotting, taunts me relentlessly. Finding Nicki was bad—never finding her would have been worse. The smoke sticks to my skin and blood rushes to my head. I retch and toss the cigarette onto the ground, burying it in the dust. What the hell am I doing? I need to get it together.

  I get back in the car and gulp water from my drink bottle before I drive to the station.

  As I stride in, I eyeball my three constables. ‘Who was responsible for the report about the beauty salon break-in?’ I bark.

  No one moves. After a few beats, de Luca gets to her feet. ‘I was.’

  Music is playing from someone’s computer. ‘Turn that off,’ I snap.

  Grange fumbles with his speakers, knocking one over.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’ I ask de Luca.

  Although my eyes are on her, I’m aware that Lane is close by; I picture the pillbox with his name on it in Tommy’s bathroom drawer and ride another surge of frustration.

  De Luca turns an unflattering red and looks bewildered. ‘I just didn’t think it was relevant,’ she stammers. ‘I mentioned it to Tommy on Sunday morning when Tara called, but by then we’d already received the call from Daniel about Abbey being missing. Tara said nothing had been taken from the salon, then Tommy asked me to go to Rick’s with him.’ De Luca looks uncharacteristically flustered. ‘With the search and then Tommy’s accident, I didn’t follow it up until Monday after we’d been to the Fletchers’ and I had Noah do the paperwork on Tuesday.’

  I close my eyes, well aware I’m angry about a lot more than this oversight but still finding it hard to control my rage. ‘Did you not think,’ I say quietly, ‘that an act of vandalism taking place in close proximity to a suspected homicide might be worth considering?’

  She swallows and looks to her colleagues; they’re no help, their eyes trained to the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, her cropped hair falling around her face as she drops her head.

  ‘“Sorry” is not going to solve this case. Everything is a potential clue and I need to rely on you not to miss critical information. It should have been part of the timeline. It’s not like we have an abundance of leads.’

  ‘I can appreciate it was an oversight,’ says de Luca formally, getting to her feet. ‘Excuse me.’

  I think I hear a faint sob as she pushes the office door open.

  Lane and Grange glance up at me before fixing their gaze on the faded carpet again.

  ‘I need to talk to you too,’ I tell Lane. I stalk past him and hear him fall into step beside me. Still tingling with rage, I shut the meeting-room door and cross my arms.

  Lane sits gingerly on the edge of a chair, swallowing noisily. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Have you ever given Tommy Gordon drugs?’

  The muscles in his face harden into incredulity. ‘What?’

  ‘I found some medication at the Gordons’ and it was prescribed to you. Explain that to me.’

  Lane looks at me blankly then snaps back to life. ‘Oh, valium, right? Yeah, last year I was prescribed some for an old sports injury but I didn’t really need it in the end. Tommy hurt his back here at the station one day, and I gave him the packet and said to keep it. No big deal.’ He stands up, his confidence restored, and lifts his eyebrows. ‘Is that it?’

  We lock eyes. ‘That’s it,’ I say, yanking open the door. My gaze is trained to him as he walks out before I follow. ‘Right,’ I say briskly. ‘Grange, you’ve still got Eric to follow up. Lane, I want you to focus on Aiden. First, I want to confirm that Georgina really did receive a call from him yesterday. Assuming she did, see if you can trace its origin. Then get in touch with his ex-girlfriend and see what shakes out.’

  ‘I’ve also got those alibis to follow up, the people on the footage,’ says Lane. ‘And some footage through from the locations Aiden’s credit card was used in Sydney.’

  ‘Good, get busy,’ I say as I head outside.

  I hear de Luca be
fore I see her. I walk around the side of the building where she’s talking on her phone, shading her eyes and flexing each foot in turn. When she sees me coming, she mutters something into the phone before hanging up, quickly wiping a finger under her left eye. The delicate curves of her nostrils are a little red but she projects her usual reserved demeanour. ‘I’m sorry I walked out before,’ she says curtly. ‘That was unprofessional.’

  ‘I’m sorry I dressed you down like that,’ I say. ‘It was unnecessary and, if I’m honest, not wholly directed at you. I was frustrated.’

  She looks surprised but simply nods and then lifts her chin, squinting into the sun. She is at least a foot taller than me, but I recognise a vulnerability, a simmering frustration. I remember what Tommy said about her at the house the other morning and feel a sudden sense of kinship with her, despite her prickliness.

  ‘How long have you been on the squad?’ I ask.

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘What’s your plan? Are you keen to become a senior constable? Or are you keen to push for sergeant?’

  Her fists clench. ‘There’s no chance of me becoming a sergeant if I stay here.’

  I cross my arms and lean against the wall. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It just won’t happen.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Tommy about it but he doesn’t think I’m ready.’ Her upper lip flares.

  ‘Well,’ I say diplomatically, ‘it’s not really my place to comment but perhaps you can speak to him about any specifics and agree to a career plan.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I know what the specifics are. He thinks my “lifestyle” is an issue and, on top of that, I’m simply not his type.’ She scoffs. ‘I have no interest in his stupid jokes and archaic attitude. So it’s pretty obvious I’m not getting anywhere here.’

  ‘It’s not easy, is it?’ I say, after a pause.

  ‘It’s easier for some,’ she says sullenly. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  I laugh, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’

  She shrugs. ‘You’re so senior, and people like Tommy trust you to come in here and run two major investigations.’

  I blink. ‘I barely know Tommy but he certainly didn’t ask me to lead the investigation—Tran did.’

  ‘No,’ de Luca stammers, ‘that’s not right. I suggested I could lead the investigation with Tran’s help, and apparently she was considering it until Tommy kicked up a fuss and said I wasn’t capable of running anything. Lane said he wanted to bring in someone he could rely on.’ She tips her head to the side. ‘I have to admit, I was surprised you’re a woman. Obviously he doesn’t have the same problems with you as he does with me.’

  I hold up my hands. ‘I don’t know where any of this is coming from but I am here by chance only. Tran contacted my old boss initially, and I stepped in instead. I don’t care what was or wasn’t said, but I’m here now and I would like us to work a lot better together, if that’s okay with you?’

  De Luca looks at the ground and nods stiffly.

  ‘Good. I think we’ve got enough on our plates as it is without the extra drama. Agreed?’

  She wipes her nose and straightens to her full height so she’s looking down at me. ‘Agreed. I didn’t get the chance to tell you before but I think I’ve found Robert Weston.’

  Friday, 15 April

  3.06 pm

  De Luca made contact with a Bondi hostel that said Robert Weston checked in on Monday night. ‘He wasn’t there last night, and the girl I spoke to this morning said she couldn’t leave the desk to check his room but when she called through he wasn’t answering.’

  De Luca logs on to her email and shows me the booking confirmation the hostel sent through. Robert’s plain face stares out at me from the scan of his passport.

  I glance at the board: Robert, Aiden, Rick, Abbey. Daniel Clark. Eric. The Fletchers.

  ‘This is great work,’ I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. ‘Let me make some calls. We’ll send some uniforms over there and see if they can track him down.’

  I call Owen, who assures me he’ll send a constable to the hostel as soon as he can.

  After the brief frenzy of excitement, the four of us sit at our desks surrounded by sheets of paper. It’s so quiet I can hear the press of tyres on asphalt every time a car drives past. The lingering smell of a toasted sandwich triggers nausea and I take another sip of water, eyeing the others. De Luca alternates between making notes and typing on her laptop. The tip of Grange’s tongue pokes out; he could hide a toothpick in the ridge between his eyes it’s so deep. Lane’s resting face is serene, but his eyes don’t seem to be moving across the piece of paper in front of him, and he keeps clutching at the back of his neck and massaging it aggressively. I cross my legs the opposite way to deter the cramp that’s threatening to set in.

  Closing my eyes, I think back to Aiden coming to his house on Monday and breaking down. I’m certain his grief was real, but it remains unclear if he was involved in Rick’s death.

  I startle when I realise Grange is standing next to me. ‘Detective Woodstock,’ he says tentatively, ‘I’m having trouble getting my hands on the hospital’s financial details. It’s complicated—there are holding company names, and it’s tied up with the beauty salon finance. Their accountants are based in Sydney. The guy I spoke to said he needs both Eric and Tara’s permission, but Eric is away camping with his kid. He did mention that at the hospital.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.

  ‘Yeah, I know. But I did confirm Eric is in the hospital security tapes on Monday morning.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Um . . . 6.33 am.’

  De Luca looks up. ‘That doesn’t rule him out from being at Rick’s place.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I say. ‘Speak to Tara about what time he left the house that morning and keep digging into the finance stuff. If we have to get a warrant, we’ll get one eventually, though I don’t like our luck over Easter.’

  ‘Bingo,’ says Lane, looking at his computer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aiden’s van at the Penrith servo.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s not driving it. It’s some other kid I don’t recognise.’

  ‘Shit, alright. See how you go trying to ID him. It doesn’t mean Aiden wasn’t in Sydney last week, it just means we have no idea where he was. They must be using burner phones. Were there any prints on the phones found at the house?’

  ‘Yeah, just Rick’s and Aiden’s.’

  ‘Were they old models?’

  Lane refers to the case file. ‘No, but they were low-end models. Not like the ones on their contracts.’

  ‘Maybe Abbey had another phone too,’ I say. ‘It seems like she paid for everything in cash. If she had a second phone, she might have contacted someone after she left the station and we don’t know about it. She could even have called someone to pick her up. Or maybe she and Rick were in contact on Saturday night after all.’

  Lane nods slowly.

  ‘We need to speak to anyone in town who sells phones and plans. Maybe they will remember selling Rick, Aiden or Abbey a prepaid phone during the last few months.’

  ‘Just in Fairhaven?’ asks Lane, shoving his wallet in his pocket.

  ‘Whatever you can manage,’ I say. ‘Take copies of their photos—they probably won’t have paid by card but maybe someone will remember them.’

  He’s scrambling to grab his things.

  ‘Ask about Daniel Clark while you’re at it,’ I say.

  He pauses, meeting my gaze, and nods.

  ‘There’s something else,’ says de Luca as Lane leaves. She comes over to my desk and lays some documents on the table. ‘See here?’ she asks, pointing to some rows of numbers at the top. ‘This is when Rick started working at the pub last year. You can see his salary coming in every week, between one and two hundred dollars.’

  I trail my index finger along the paper. ‘Yep.’

  �
��And then he left school and obviously started working more, right? So you can see the increase from November. It jumps to a few hundred dollars a week.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, so we know he quit the pub in late February, right? You can see when the payments stop coming in. Anyway, I pulled all his business info—he set up the ABN on the twenty-sixth of Feb and opened a business banking account on the same day. He started pitching for jobs straight away. We’ve pulled a few emails he sent to the parents of friends.’

  I nod. ‘This all makes sense.’

  She takes out another piece of paper. ‘It does, except for his spending. Unlike Abbey, Rick had a credit card—he’d had it since he was sixteen.’ She leans across me and points a pen down a series of transactions. ‘He spent a lot of money, on food, cigarettes, clothes, surfboards and music. I’m talking way more than he ever earned at the pub.’ She flips back to the bank statement. ‘And see here? Unexplained cash deposits, up to six hundred dollars sometimes.’

  ‘Were his parents giving him money? He was only seventeen.’

  ‘As far as I can tell he paid no rent and his parents paid all the utilities. He definitely wasn’t receiving any transfers from them.’

  ‘Maybe they were giving him cash? That makes sense based on their own business activities.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She frowns. ‘It just seems like a lot.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, pulling out the crime-scene photos. The blood on Rick’s face is bright red against the darker colours around him. ‘What about his car? It looks fairly new.’ I point to the garage wall. ‘And the tools? They all look new to me as well. And we still don’t know the story about the cash in the biscuit tin.’

  De Luca picks up the photos. ‘There’s nothing in his bank statements about purchasing tools and nothing about the car either.’

  We look at each other in realisation. ‘Speak to the Fletchers,’ I say. ‘And check all of Aiden’s statements as well.’ I think about Abbey’s supermarket earnings; was she giving money to Rick?