Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ He’s wearing a black T-shirt and faded jeans. His face looks sunburned.

  ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘You’re always giving me time limits,’ he grumbles, shoving his fingers through his hair. His smile fades. ‘Gemma, I’m writing a story that I think will go live tomorrow. It’s about you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t have much of a choice—we got a tip-off and my editor creamed her pants over it.’

  I throw my hands out in front of me. ‘What’s the story, Simon?’

  ‘Visiting homicide detective run out of town after being threatened by dead animal carcass.’

  I lean back against my car. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, someone called my editor about it.’

  I cross my arms, trying not to shake. ‘Who?’

  ‘She said it was a woman, that’s all I know.’ He shifts his weight to the other foot. ‘Do you want to provide a quote?’

  I look over at the pub. Maybe Cam said something to a staff member and they called the press? A dead possum is hardly good PR for The Parrot, but one of the juniors might have just wanted to be part of the story.

  Or would Tommy go this far to undermine me? My throat constricts and my insides sink. Then I think about my argument with de Luca today, remembering when she quickly hung up the phone as I went outside. I have no doubt Tommy told Lane about the possum; he might have mentioned it to her. Was she so frustrated by my being here and so pissed off by my criticism that she tried to sabotage me? Surely not, based on our subsequent conversation.

  Perhaps Tommy coerced Vanessa into calling the paper.

  ‘No comment,’ I snap at Simon. I feel almost weak with loneliness. ‘And clearly I haven’t been run out of town—I’m bloody well standing in front of you.’

  ‘Gemma, I know it’s true about the possum. I saw Cam outside your hotel room that first morning, you both bending down and covering something with a garbage bag. That’s what it was, right? Someone was threatening you? As soon as my editor told me about the tip-off, I put two and two together.’

  ‘How did you know which room was mine?’

  Simon falters. ‘I saw you and your son arrive on Monday. I was staying upstairs and your door was in my line of sight from the window.’ He presses his lips together as if unsure if he should continue. ‘The caller said you were spooked. She mentioned the case you worked on with the missing girl in Sydney and said that people in the senior ranks are worried about your mental health.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Simon,’ I hiss. ‘What, so an unfounded source calls up your editor, doles out a bunch of lies, and you print it? I thought you were a better journalist than that.’

  He looks hurt. ‘Gemma,’ he says quietly, ‘the case isn’t officially progressing. The body in the bush wasn’t Abbey. You guys either know nothing or you’re giving us nothing. Either way, that doesn’t lead to a lot of column inches. Then this lands in my lap. Someone is clearly threatened by you being here, and the similarities to your previous case . . . Well, it’s a good story. I’m really sorry but I’d be crazy not to write it.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were such a fucking puppet.’ I open the car door with such force that my shoulder almost leaves its socket. ‘Write what you want, Simon.’ I slam the door and don’t look at him as I throw the car into reverse and speed off.

  Vanessa is serving dinner when I reach the house. I decline wine but devour the lamb cutlets and salad, listening to Ben chat about his day while engaging with Vanessa and Tommy as little as possible. I can’t stop glancing every so often at the two pill packets in the middle of the table. Tommy is quiet tonight and Vanessa seems jumpy, getting up and down to let Inka in and out the back door.

  Feeling uneasy I offer to clean up, and they retire to the couch to watch TV. Ben stays at the table doing a crossword, and I help him in between clearing the table and rinsing the dishes. I love him so much it hurts.

  Once the dishwasher is full and humming, I say goodnight to Vanessa and Tommy, then lead Ben down the hallway. ‘Tell me about the game Charlie taught you,’ I say, and we spend the next hour playing before I help him through his bedtime routine. ‘Why don’t you just sleep in my bed tonight?’ I suggest, not acknowledging he’s going to end up there anyway.

  He shrugs. ‘Sure.’

  I read to him until he falls asleep, then I lie there staring at his face. I think about Abbey hurling the brick through the wall of glass.

  SEVENTH DAY MISSING

  Saturday, 16 April

  7.01 am

  Pulling the Gordons’ front door shut, I slide my sunglasses on. The sky is clear of clouds and the sun glows yellow through the trees. For the first time in weeks I slept well, only waking once, and though my face is a little puffy I feel reasonably refreshed.

  I checked Simon’s paper online but there’s no sign of the article yet. Then I spot a note on my windshield and feel a flash of anger toward him, though it’s not as intense as it was yesterday. He’s just doing his job; no doubt if I were a reporter I would be just as dogged, if not more so. And maybe he’s not going to run the piece.

  I free the folded note from the grip of the windscreen wipers and open it.

  I drop it onto the bonnet like it’s on fire. Automatically I glance around, but there’s no one on the street, no faces in the windows.

  I look back at the note and carefully pull open its corner. It’s a photocopy of Scott’s obituary from the local Smithson paper, a small rectangle in the middle of the otherwise blank page.

  To the right of the text someone has written: Leave now. Your son doesn’t deserve to be an orphan.

  I drop my bag on the desk so forcefully that Grange jumps.

  After I read the note for a second time, the acid that charged up my throat brought some coffee with it. I fish a mint from the depths of my bag and toss it in my mouth. ‘Right, sorry for calling you all in early, but there’s been a development.’

  Lane, de Luca and Grange all look at me expectantly. De Luca’s short hair is gathered into a wispy ponytail, accentuating her thin face. More than ever, they seem like strangers and I have no idea what they think of me. Could one of them want me gone so badly they would try to scare me out of town?

  ‘I managed to connect with Robert Weston last night. He admitted to seeing Abbey after she left the police station on Saturday.’

  I notice de Luca grimace, and I kick myself for not having her present at the interview. It was her lead.

  I point to the photo of the broken salon window, which I’ve pinned up on the case board, and take them through my conversation with Robert.

  ‘That does back up what the UK cop emailed me,’ says de Luca.

  ‘He could be lying,’ says Lane. ‘Not about seeing her, but it could have been him who broke the window. Maybe he did it to scare her. He could have hurt her too.’

  Robert’s face looms large in my mind. ‘I’m inclined to think he’s telling the truth, but yes, we can’t write him off just yet. He has an alibi for Monday morning, though, so he didn’t kill Rick.’ My legs are aching and I take a seat. But I can’t relax; my nerve endings are buzzing. I glance at Lane, realising he looks about as good as I feel. ‘Are you alright?’ I ask him.

  ‘Um, yeah.’ He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. ‘Sorry, I just didn’t sleep well last night.’

  Grange picks up his pen and chews the end, looking perplexed. ‘Why would Abbey do that?’

  ‘I’m wondering about the Sheffields,’ I say. ‘Could she have had some kind of beef with them?’

  ‘Maybe she did have an appointment with Eric and he upset her?’ suggests de Luca.

  ‘Maybe,’ I murmur. ‘Regardless, it suggests she wasn’t in the most stable frame of mind.’

  ‘You’re wondering about suicide?’ says de Luca.

  I purse my lips and nod slowly. ‘This certainly makes it seem more likely. We know she had arguments with both her father and Rick that evening,
and that she seemed upset about her bike being stolen.’

  No one says anything, and I hear the sharp trill of the reception desk phone. Lane squeezes his eyes shut; he looks completely wiped.

  Noah sticks his head into the main office. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but Tim’s called in sick for tonight’s shift. He’s got gastro and says there’s no way he’ll be back on his feet by this evening. I checked with Kylie but you’ve already got her on tomorrow. I obviously can’t stay more than an hour or so longer tonight and I can’t work tomorrow, it’s my mum’s seventieth and she’s not well.’

  ‘Great,’ I mutter. I was already on edge and that note has tipped me over it, so a tiny challenge seems like an insurmountable obstacle.

  ‘I’m happy to do the night shift,’ says Lane quickly. ‘If I get some sleep this afternoon, I should be fine. To be honest, I think I’ll be more effective—I barely slept last night. You can always leave me any desk research to follow up with.’

  I don’t really have another option, plus I’m keen to keep Lane away from the possible connection with Eric Sheffield. His explanation about the valium prescription rang true, but I still feel uneasy about it. ‘Okay, that would be good. Give us your hit list for today and we’ll do what we can. Then be back here tonight at six for a handover with Noah.’

  ‘No problem.’ Lane makes a few notes and passes them to de Luca. ‘Call me if you need to,’ he says, looking relieved as he heads off.

  The door clicks shut behind him, and I look at de Luca and Grange. ‘I want you to speak to those kids from the party about the drugs again. I want to know exactly what they’re taking and where they get it from. Mention Doctor Eric Sheffield as I think there’s a chance he was doing a little bit of dealing on the side.’

  Eric is still uncontactable, and the perky receptionist tells me he’s not expected back until this afternoon. ‘It’s been crazy today,’ she trills down the phone. ‘Easter is always busy, but honestly I just have not stopped.’

  Easter. God. I haven’t even thought about that. I write a note on the back of my hand, hoping I’ll get to the supermarket before the end of the day.

  I haven’t heard from Mac since I left him at the cafe yesterday morning, and despite what I said about wanting to be left alone, it’s chewing me up inside.

  I can’t afford to think about it. I piano my fingers on the desk and try to untangle my thoughts. If there really is a link between Rick and some sort of drug ring, how far does it go? Was Abbey involved? Daniel? Or am I struggling to make connections where there are none?

  My desk phone bleats loudly and I snatch it from its cradle. ‘Detective Sergeant Woodstock.’

  ‘I thought I recognised the number,’ says a friendly female voice. ‘It’s Janet Rixon—I used to be a cop in Fairhaven. I had a missed call a couple of days ago. I assume Tommy Gordon wants to speak with me?’

  ‘Yes, Janet, hi. Thanks for calling back. It’s actually me who wants to talk with you.’

  ‘Oh, well. Hello. Sorry, what was your name?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gemma Woodstock. I’m with the Fairhaven team, temporarily working on both a homicide and a missing person case.’

  ‘Rick Fletcher and Abbey Clark—yes, I saw the news. Bloody sad business, though I can’t say I’m surprised about Abbey. She never had much of a chance with a father like Daniel.’

  I glance around. De Luca and Grange are talking in the tearoom.

  ‘Janet, can I call you back on this number?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got a cold so I’m not diving today. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘Okay, hang on a tic.’ I grab my mobile and step outside into the heat, walking around to the back of the building in between the two storage sheds where there is a strip of shade. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say when Janet picks up.

  Her laugh is warm and contagious. ‘No worries. I’m betting you’re outside trying to get some privacy?’

  I scan my eyes up the wall of the closest shed. A scribble of graffiti. Peeling paint. A spray of bird shit. The tangy salt taste of the ocean. ‘Affirmative,’ I quip.

  Janet’s voice has a fond, whimsical tone as she says, ‘Fairhaven’s a funny little place, isn’t it? Anyway, sorry!’ She pulls herself up. ‘I’m sure you have something serious you want to talk to me about.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ A wave of apprehension hits me. Once I unlock this box, I may not be able to close it again, even if it’s all in my head. I square my jaw. ‘Janet, I understand you helped investigate the disappearance of Sally Luther and Gregory Ng. You were a constable in Fairhaven at the time, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She breathes out heavily.

  ‘I have a few questions for you, if that’s okay.’

  ‘My memory might be a bit rusty but I’m happy to help. Mind you, I haven’t thought much about this in years—I spend all my time these days with my face in coral.’ Her laugh turns nervous. ‘You don’t think Abbey’s disappearance is linked to Sally and Greg, do you?’

  I pause, not sure what to say that won’t sound crazy. In the end I opt for ‘no’. ‘What did you think of the inquest verdict?’

  Janet hums. ‘I’m starting to remember why I stopped thinking about this case. Look, I really don’t know. We all talked ourselves round in so many circles, by the time we put the case on ice we were back where we started.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Well, everyone thought Greg did it.’

  ‘Why was everyone so quick to assume Greg hurt her?’

  Janet sighs. ‘All the obvious reasons. He stole cash from the pub that night. His father had an extensive criminal record. He was Asian. There were rumours he had a drug problem, though we could never confirm that. I think his star just didn’t shine as brightly as Sally’s in town, and deep down no one in Fairhaven liked that she picked him.’

  ‘Was there any sign that he’d been abusive toward her?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. If anything, he seemed absolutely besotted. And I have to tell you, the theory that they ran away together? I just didn’t buy it. I could never see a reason why Sally would need to run. Her parents were super supportive of her—they had accepted Greg—and she had a new job working as a receptionist for the local GP, and freedom to do whatever she wanted. It just didn’t make sense.’

  ‘Maybe Greg convinced her they had to clear out? I mean, he was desperate enough to steal money, so maybe something happened suddenly and he needed to jump town. Sally might have made a split-second decision.’

  ‘Maybe, but Cam and the other hotel staff said he seemed absolutely fine that night, chatting about Sally and her sister’s wedding. Yes, his family situation wasn’t great, but he was working and he had Sally. His stock was rising. And even if he asked her to go with him, I just can’t believe she’d miss her sister’s wedding. Even though they cancelled it in the end of course. That’s the thing that really has her family convinced something happened to her.’

  Neither of us speak for a moment.

  ‘Gosh, I can hear those Fairhaven cicadas,’ Janet says with a laugh.

  ‘I’ve been digging up the files on the case,’ I admit.

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘I’ve been led to believe that a few things perhaps weren’t documented properly.’

  ‘You’ve been speaking to Simon Charleston,’ she says, and I feel a twinge of embarrassment.

  ‘I have met Simon, but I also spoke to someone else and—’

  ‘Look, Gemma.’ She sighs. ‘I never made it very far in the force, it just wasn’t for me. And nothing made me realise that more than the Luther/Ng case.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t even explain it to you properly—all of a sudden, there was just so much tension in the squad.’ She pauses, then says, ‘The former CI, Stuart Klein, wasn’t a very nice man. I never liked him, but during the case his behaviour was bizarre.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was aggressive and i
nconsistent. I’m the first to admit the case was all over the place during those initial few weeks, but I was very junior so just kept my head down and tried to stay out of the way. Some of the witnesses retracted statements, and as I’m sure Simon has told you there were whispers of backdoor payments. But nothing was ever proven. And to be honest, I don’t know who would have been paying who. Then, just as the case was going cold, Stuart moved interstate. I can’t explain it to you but the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. I stayed on for a while, but I had issues with Tommy too, and in the end my heart wasn’t in it.’

  ‘What kind of issues did you have with Tommy?’

  ‘Oh, we just weren’t on the same page. I wanted more balance in my life, and ultimately he didn’t think I had the right level of commitment. He doesn’t think much of women in the force—that’s not a secret.’

  Even though it’s hot outside, all my hairs are raised. I lean against the shed, trying to think.

  ‘Do you believe Stuart was bent?’ I ask.

  Janet sighs. ‘I don’t know. I’m not going to tell you it didn’t cross my mind, but my issue with him was more his arrogance than anything else. He came from wealth and was used to getting his way. He treated me like dirt. Tommy was actually quite good in comparison. Then as soon as the new junior constable started, a young man, I was chopped liver.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I say sympathetically, then get the conversation back on track. ‘Daniel Clark changed his mind about making a statement on seeing Greg that night. Why?’

  ‘Because he was an alcoholic? I really don’t know—I was pretty far down the pecking order and not privy to conversations.’

  ‘Was Daniel a suspect?’

  ‘Not officially, but I always got the feeling Tommy thought Daniel was involved somehow.’

  ‘What did Stuart think?’

  ‘He thought Daniel was a drunk who beat his wife. Full stop. He didn’t think Daniel had anything to do with it, and essentially forbade us from investigating him. After Daniel refused to make an official statement, there wasn’t much to link him to the case anyway.’