Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘But Greg kicked him out of the pub that night, and he’s prone to violence, so he had motive. I can see why Tommy wanted him in the mix.’

  Janet sighs. ‘Yeah, I know, but for some reason Tommy’s and Stuart’s relationship soured over the whole thing. It was all over my head but clearly something was going on.’

  ‘Could anyone alibi Daniel?’

  ‘Dot said he was home by 11 pm.’

  ‘That doesn’t leave enough time. If he did something to Sally and Greg that night, he couldn’t have done it and covered his tracks so comprehensively in thirty minutes.’

  ‘I know, but Tommy was convinced Dot was lying for him.’

  ‘Same as now,’ I murmur.

  ‘It’s just the way it is, I guess,’ says Janet diplomatically. ‘Partner alibis are always fraught. The other thing that complicated matters was that Daniel also said he saw Greg’s car being driven later when he was walking home.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He reckoned he saw Greg driving it. He said it was speeding, nearly out of control.’

  ‘Did you think he was telling the truth?’

  ‘I’m not sure. By that stage everyone knew Sally and Gregory were missing, so it’s hard to know if Daniel was mucking us around.’

  I breathe out through clenched teeth, trying to make sense of it all. ‘I’d better let you go. Thanks for your time, Janet. I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem, Gemma. Can I ask why you didn’t just speak to Tommy about this?’

  I nudge a tuft of grass with my shoe. ‘He’s not well. He was in a car accident last week, so he’s taking some time out. I don’t want to bother him with anything unless I have to.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s no good. I wasn’t a Tommy fan but his wife is lovely. I always felt like she was overcompensating for him.’

  I’m about to agree about this when something strikes me. ‘Hey, Janet, you said “witnesses” before. Who else retracted their initial statement in the case?’

  ‘Oh, well, that was even trickier because mental health issues were involved. Megan Jarvis claimed she saw two men carrying a body across the car park.’

  ‘Meg Jarvis said that?’

  To my surprise, Janet chuckles. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand, what’s so funny?’

  Janet’s voice becomes serious again. ‘It wasn’t funny—the whole thing was actually really frustrating. One minute Meg was telling anyone who’d listen what she saw that night, and I even had to give her a warning because she was creating such a racket outside the supermarket the next morning. But when we gave her the chance to make a formal statement a few days later, she was suddenly swearing black and blue that she didn’t even leave her house that night.’ She sighs. ‘Honestly? I didn’t know what to believe.’

  Saturday, 16 April

  10.02 am

  I linger outside and walk a lap around the station, thinking about everything Janet said. The ringing in my head returns as the threads of that fateful evening ten years ago merge with what I know about last Saturday night. I begin another lap, wanting to keep moving. White sunlight bounces off the windows, the cars and the tin roofs of the sheds.

  Sally, Greg, Tommy, Abbey, Rick. Is Daniel the clue to this whole thing? The animosity between he and Rick could have been an act. Daniel went to his house the morning after Abbey disappeared—maybe they nutted out a plan, then Rick got cold feet and Daniel attacked him. Aiden might have been involved.

  I think about Tommy and the drawer full of pills. Is his behaviour toward me territorial, or is he afraid of what I might uncover? In all of our conversations he has abhorred Daniel’s domestic violence, suggesting that the man should be locked up, but maybe he’s been covering a mutually beneficial relationship. What did Daniel see the night Sally and Greg went missing? Is it possible that Tommy forced him to pull his statement? And maybe got to Meg too?

  Or maybe I’m just chasing my own tail as I grow increasingly desperate.

  Think, think. Was Abbey just a troubled girl who decided it was all too much, or does her attack on the salon prove she was violent enough to kill Rick? Had Daniel’s relentless abuse finally broken her, causing a primal darkness to erupt? Perhaps Rick had done something that reminded her of her father and caused her to snap.

  I think back to the footage of Abbey arriving at the police station last Saturday night: her desperate movements before she disappeared into the night. I look over to the front of the station. It’s set back from the road, and several trees line the gravel driveway. I remember what Erin said about seeing Abbey here that Sunday, her bike propped against the tree as she stared at the station.

  My gaze drifts from the security camera positioned over the door to the parked cars, as I trace its line of sight with my eyes.

  An icy thought splinters into my chest. The timeline—it always comes back to the timeline. How had Tommy beaten Lane to the party on Firestone Drive? I remember watching the footage remaining after Abbey had gone: the shadow moving in the bottom left of the screen, the delay in the glow of Lane’s headlights appearing before he drove the squad car to meet Tommy at the house party. What was Lane doing? Had he used the bathroom before he went? No, if he had he would appear on the footage in the station again. I reel around, looking between the station and the sheds.

  I think of Lane’s keenness to work a night shift, his supposed guilt about not driving Abbey home. The artwork in the salon window. The girl with the blonde dreadlocks wrestling the canvas out of her boot yesterday morning. Lane’s hand down her skirt at the pub. His girlfriend.

  I rush back into the station. My sun-drunk eyes reduce Grange and de Luca to blurry outlines.

  ‘Where are the keys to the sheds?’

  They both stand.

  ‘In the safe,’ stammers Grange.

  ‘Get them. Now!’

  I don’t wait for their reaction but go into the tearoom and pull the roster off the wall, flicking back to the week before last. My heartbeat pounds through every part of my body: Lane worked that Sunday shift.

  His hand, held out to her on that video—calming, authoritarian, but not for the reason I suspected. Oh my god. I flick forward to last week’s roster. He was scheduled on at 6 am Monday. I close my eyes. I never asked who picked up Rick’s voice message first.

  Grange is talking on the phone. As I return to the main room, he says, ‘That was weird.’

  ‘What’s weird?’ I demand.

  ‘The shed keys aren’t in the safe, so I called Lane to see if he knows where they are.’ Grange blinks, his long eyelashes fluttering. ‘And he hung up on me.’

  The crunch of metal makes me wince. The three of us stand back as Xander the locksmith yanks a severed metal hook from the holder of the second shed.

  He turns to us, grinning. ‘Nothing else you need busted open?’

  ‘Thanks, Xander,’ I say, ‘you’ve been a massive help.’

  I wait for him to get back into his truck before I pull the door open. It creaks ominously and a cloud of hot air swirls out. De Luca and Grange peer around me into the darkness, as I stare past the shelves lined with plastic crates full of papers, an old fan and two broken chairs.

  A bike is propped against the back wall of the shed, covered by a plastic tarp.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Grange.

  ‘Lane,’ de Luca murmurs, her face white.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘But why would he lie about the bike?’ asks Grange. ‘Why would Abbey?’

  The piercing ringing in my mind has become a sharp headache that settles behind my eyes.

  ‘It was a cover,’ I say, walking back to the station. ‘Grange, secure this scene. Take photos and call Tran. We need to get a forensic team here asap, so we’ll need her muscle.’ I run up the front ramp, calling out behind me, ‘De Luca, come with me.’

  ‘We’re going to his house?’ she asks.

  I nod. ‘I’ll drive. Can you get a trace put on his phone? And chec
k if his squad car can be tracked.’ Something else briefly surfaces in my whirlpool of thoughts, but I can’t catch it. I simply grab my bag and race out the front.

  Saturday, 16 April

  11.44 am

  Lane’s car isn’t at his home and neither is he, or at least he isn’t responding to our aggressive knocking. We circle the house, a single-storey detached unit with a garden of native grasses. The blinds are drawn; I peer through a crack in the kitchen blind but can’t see anything.

  ‘I know it’s legally iffy, but I’m going to break in,’ I say to de Luca, who swallows and nods. ‘I don’t want to run all over town if it turns out he’s been here the whole time.’

  ‘Do you actually think he’s dangerous? Maybe this is just a misunderstanding. He might have found the bike.’

  ‘Edwina,’ I say.

  She nods again, her face all hard lines. ‘I’ll go around the front.’

  I pull out my gun and double-check the carport door is locked, aiming my right boot at the door, I kick it hard. The lock caves after three kicks, and the door swings open.

  I quickly search the main bedroom, lounge, kitchen, bathroom. A second bedroom door remains shut, and I twist the knob and nudge it open with my elbow. It hits something with a thud and I spring forward.

  The curtains are a garish red, bathing the room in orange light. A corduroy beanbag, an old desk and a half-filled bookcase. He’s not here.

  I turn to go and stop in my tracks.

  Behind the open door is a large wire cage. An animal trap.

  I back away, my hand on my throat. Faint tufts of brown and grey fur line the base of the cage. I think about Lane’s hand on my back after I was sick at the caravan park. His happy chatter in the car. His baby face.

  I cry out with frustration and fold forward, his betrayal hitting me square in the gut. How could I have missed it? How did we all miss it?

  ‘Detective!’ De Luca calls from the front lawn.

  A strange numbness comes over me. Throwing one last look at the cage, I unlock the front door and stalk out, my gun still in my hand. ‘Do you know where his girlfriend lives?’

  De Luca glances back at the house, then falls into step beside me. ‘Elsha? I’m not sure. I know she works at the salon.’

  ‘I thought she was an artist?’ I say, holstering my gun.

  ‘She’s also a masseuse,’ says de Luca.

  ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  De Luca calls Lane’s parents on the way, pretending to be an old schoolfriend.

  ‘Nope, they haven’t heard from him since last week,’ she says, hanging up.

  ‘He has siblings, right?’

  ‘I think they live in Melbourne,’ she says distractedly, her brow creasing. ‘I’m just wondering . . .’

  ‘What?’

  She turns to me, her eyes twitching as she talks. ‘It’s just that the last call-out we got for the Clarks, back in early Feb, Lane insisted on going. The call came in just as he was about to finish his shift. I said I’d go but he said he would do it and write up the report the next day.’

  I feel her gaze on me as I circle the roundabout that leads into the main street.

  ‘He wanted to see her,’ she says. ‘Abbey.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’

  ‘They were together?’

  ‘Something was going on between them.’

  De Luca cups a hand over her mouth, her long fingers reaching to the edge of her face. ‘She was only fifteen. Do you think they were . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, pulling the handbrake into position. ‘Come on.’

  The sickly-sweet scent of vanilla envelops us as we step into the salon. Tara is blow-drying a brand-new bob and jiggles her elbow in greeting, though annoyance flashes in her eyes. ‘Give me a tick!’ she calls out.

  De Luca and I shift over to the little waiting area, and I scan the rows of shiny products lining the wall and wonder what the hell they’re all for.

  Next to me, de Luca is kneading her forehead with her hands. ‘Maybe he was just trying to help her somehow?’ Her voice is thick with emotion and her expression is one I’m familiar with: denial mixed with the knowledge that something is very wrong. ‘Should we call Tommy? He might be able to explain all this.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I’m sure he’ll hear the alerts but I don’t want to engage him in this.’

  The buzz of the hairdryer ceases and other sounds come to the fore: the snip of scissors, the rip as wax is wrenched from skin, and the low hum of a neon light being held over a woman’s foil-wrapped fingernails. Tara applies a liberal dose of spray to the dried hair before grabbing a mirror to display the reverse view.

  After waving her customer off at the counter, she comes over to us. ‘Sorry!’ she says, her arms folded. ‘It’s been a bit busy today, which is a good thing ’cause earlier in the week was so quiet. Kate Morse was saying that a few caravan park bookings pulled out.’ Tara’s face puckers slightly and she glares at me. ‘I guess some of the recent events have scared people off.’ She looks past us to the mirror and adjusts her hair before smoothing her fingers along her jawbone to blend in a line of make-up.

  ‘Tara, have you seen Constable Lane today?’

  ‘No, but he did call earlier. He was looking for Elsha and I told him she was with a client.’

  ‘What time did he call?’

  ‘Just before nine, I think.’

  The bell above the door tinkles, announcing the arrival of a sunburned woman. Tara flashes her a smile then strains her neck into the salon, directing one of the girls to the front counter with her eyes.

  ‘And you haven’t heard from him since?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ says Tara, getting increasingly frustrated. The bell above the door sounds again, and she whips her head around. ‘But this lovely lady might have.’

  The girl who was at the pub with Lane on Monday night is standing next to the counter. Today her dreadlocks are wrapped around her head like a turban, and silver chains circle both ankles and hang at various lengths around her neck. When she sees me she stops short and looks wary. Then she props a small canvas against the front counter; the painting is a burst of colour, an abstract flower set against a magenta background, its loose silver seeds trailing off the side.

  ‘Elsha,’ I say, ‘have you spoken to Kai Lane this morning?’

  A sharp chemical scent now fills the salon, making my eyes start to water.

  ‘Not since he left my house,’ says Elsha. ‘He tried to call me but I was with clients. I tried to call him back but his phone is off.’

  ‘He’s your boyfriend, right?’ I say.

  She nods uncertainly. ‘Yes. Only for a few months—we met in November.’

  ‘You said you saw him this morning?’

  ‘Yes, he stayed at my place last night. Went straight to work.’ She pulls a filigree ring off her finger before sliding it on again, and tilts her chin at me defiantly. ‘He woke up when you called him to come in early again. He didn’t sleep well last night—he was very tired. Why do you ask?’ Elsha’s disdain for me is obvious, and I wonder what kind of picture Lane has been painting for her.

  ‘How has Kai seemed lately?’

  ‘He’s been pretty stressed. I haven’t actually seen him that much this week. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and I get up early to paint, so . . .’

  ‘Were you together last Saturday night?’

  ‘Um, no. He was working a late shift and he went back to his place.’

  ‘What about on Monday morning? Was he with you before he went to work?’

  She crosses her arms defensively. ‘I’m not sure. I think so.’ Her eyes widen suddenly. ‘Yes, yes, he was. He stayed at my place on Sunday after the search for that missing girl.’

  ‘What time did he leave on Monday morning?’

  ‘It was early,’ she says, wary again. ‘But I’m not sure exactly. I went to the beach to paint.’ She takes a deep breath and turns to de Luca. ‘Can you please tel
l me what’s going on?’

  I go to the front desk and scribble my number and email address on the back of a price menu. ‘We’re trying to find him,’ I say. ‘Do you live alone?’

  She nods.

  ‘Don’t go home after work. Go to the pub or a restaurant, okay? Maybe stay with a friend tonight—can you do that?’

  She nods again.‘Why, what’s he done?’ she says sharply, her voice rising.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say gently. ‘We’re just a bit worried—he didn’t seem well today, and we need to ask him about something important.’

  She blinks, Bambi-like. ‘Elsha. I think Kai might contact you, and it’s really important you call me the second you hear from him.’

  Saturday, 16 April

  1.23 pm

  De Luca and I arrive back at the station and are immediately accosted by Noah. ‘Dot Clark just called,’ he says. ‘She says she needs to talk to you.’

  I lean my weight on the counter, trying to relieve my aching legs. ‘Okay, I’ll call her back.’

  He shakes his head, looking a little anxious. ‘She said she’ll call you back. She specifically said she doesn’t want you to call the house.’

  ‘Did she say what it was about?’

  ‘No, but it sounded important. She seemed quite worked up.’

  I go to my desk with de Luca trailing behind. ‘What now?’ she says.

  ‘We pull all of Lane’s records.’

  She swallows but keeps her face impassive. ‘No problem.’

  I call Owen.

  ‘Still nothing on Aiden Fletcher’s whereabouts, I’m afraid, Gemma, but I have something you might be interested in. Jock and I just pulled in a delivery guy for a food company. He says he was approached online about a month ago about doing extra deliveries.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The email said if he wanted to earn some extra cash, he simply needed to pick up some boxes from an address that would be confirmed at a later date, then deliver the items as part of his usual run.’

  ‘How much cash?’