by Sarah Bailey
Drugs masquerading as drugs. Hiding in plain sight.
‘This isn’t finished,’ I say, pushing my chair back.
Mac looks alarmed. ‘Gemma, you don’t need to think about this case anymore. You’ve done enough.’
‘Please don’t do that, don’t tell me what I need.’ My head spins. ‘Can you mind Ben for me? I need to follow something up. It’s not to do with Rick or Abbey—I think there’s something else going on.’
Mac breathes out through his teeth. ‘I said I’d help Cam. The pub flooded last night, and it’s a mess. He came past before, when you were asleep, and I think Ben is keen to help anyway. But, Gem, at some point we really do need to work everything out.’
I retie my hair and straighten my clothes. ‘I know, but there’s something else I need to do first.’
I say goodbye to Ben and step outside. It feels a lot longer than a week ago that I discovered the dead possum. Realising my car is at the Gordons’, I stand in the sunshine trying to decide what to do.
‘Gemma!’
I whip around.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Simon, his hands already raised in defence. ‘I’m just walking past, I don’t want another serve.’ He steps around me and unlocks the door to his room.
‘Actually, Simon,’ I say, ‘is there any chance you can give me a lift?’
Simon parks his car outside the main entrance of the hospital. ‘I didn’t run that article.’
‘I noticed.’
‘I had a big fight with my editor about it.’
‘Lucky you’re tough.’
He flexes his arm. ‘True. She did tell me that the woman who called had an accent—possibly Dutch or Scandinavian. Anyway, I convinced her it was part of a smear campaign and that it would bite us in the arse if we published it.’
‘Thank you,’ I say vaguely.
An accent. Elsha. Lane’s betrayal continues beyond the grave.
I turn to Simon. ‘I have to go.’
‘Sure. Good chat.’
‘I might only be a second.’
‘I can wait,’ he says. ‘I brought a book.’ He hooks his thumb toward a dog-eared Tom Clancy novel in the back seat. ‘Plus, I’m obviously hoping there’s going to be a story in this for me. It would be good to get your exclusive take on the events of last night.’
‘You have a one-track mind,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘That’s what my ex-girlfriends say,’ he quips as I get out of the car.
I burst into the hospital foyer. The receptionist eyes me nervously but chirps, ‘Happy Easter!’
‘I need to see Doctor Sheffield,’ I snap.
‘We-ell, he’s on the ward. Do you know, he ended up assisting with the delivery of a baby last night? It was so amazing—the ambulance couldn’t get through to the house because of the storm, so they called him instead.’
‘Through here?’ I say, already pushing the double doors.
‘Um, hang on, I’ll page him . . . Wait, please!’
The doors swing shut behind me. Eric is at the other end of the corridor and looks up in surprise.
‘Hello, Detective.’
‘Doctor Sheffield, I need to speak with you. Right now.’
‘Okay, no problem.’ He smiles reassuringly at a nurse and moves at an excruciatingly slow pace, handing her some paperwork and scribbling on a notepad. ‘My office?’
I nod and we walk down the corridor together.
‘I heard about Edwina,’ he says as I close the door. ‘How terrible.’
‘What’s going on with Tommy Gordon?’
‘What about him?’
‘You have been subscribing him bogus medication for years.’
‘Yes,’ Eric says calmly. ‘Tommy is an addict, and it has manifested into pseudo chronic pain. I didn’t realise he was doctor shopping until about a year ago when Vanessa started coming in with various ailments, all of them very vague. After a while I twigged that it was all for Tommy.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘You have to understand, these situations are difficult—I can’t ignore what a patient is telling me even if I’m almost a hundred per cent certain it’s false or in their head. I confronted her about it, but of course she kept mum. I told her I wouldn’t be giving her any more prescriptions.’
‘Tommy was high when he had his accident,’ I say. ‘That’s why Vanessa went and got him. It meant he could go home and claim to have taken medication after the fact, which would muddy any bloodwork done.’
‘I suspect you’re right,’ says Eric wearily. ‘I tried to talk to him, but you know what Tommy’s like.’ He hesitates. ‘I have considered reporting him, but I admit I feel conflicted about it. I don’t know exactly how bad it is, and due to his position it does feel somewhat complicated.’
Everything Eric is saying rings true. His voice is calm and kind, and for a second I lose my bearings. He crosses his arms and looks at me expectantly.
‘But are you selling prescription drugs off the books?’ I say.
‘What? No.’
‘Is the hospital being used as a delivery point for illegal drugs coming from the city?’ I press.
He laughs, seemingly bewildered. ‘Not as far as I know. Why don’t you sit down?’ He gestures to a chair.
I remain standing. ‘Other hospitals in the area have been used as a hub. Schools and vet clinics too. It looks like the standard deliveries have been supplemented with extra stock, prescription medication that is packaged and then sold illegally within regional communities. We’re not talking small-scale stuff.’
Eric’s eyes widen. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘I’ve gone through your financial records. There’s a significant monthly freight payment to a holding company in your wife’s name. What are you hiding?’
Eric looks bewildered. ‘Nothing.’
‘Explain it to me then. Why do you pay your wife’s salon for freight?’
‘It’s for tax purposes. A few years ago we all got together and agreed we could pool our funds to create some efficiencies.’
‘Who’s we?’ I ask impatiently.
‘Me, Tara and some of the other small-business owners in the area. It makes sense. We all receive regular supplies from Sydney, so rather than each paying separately for freight, we figured we could save some money. Tara already had the company set up for the salon, and it made sense that her business would pay the freight for tax purposes, and then the hospital and the others transfer her our percentage of the costs. My accountant can probably explain it better. I’m not trying to hide anything, but I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.’
‘What other businesses?’
‘Well, the salon like I said. That’s Tara’s baby and I don’t get too involved in it. And Des and Min at the supermarket, and Cam at the pub.’
‘So, what, the one delivery comes into town for all of you?’
‘Yes,’ says Eric. ‘It’s all run through the one company. Everything comes in on Tuesdays, like I told you.’
‘Who organises the delivery company? Is it Tara?’
‘She pays for it, but Cam manages it all. He’s always been very entrepreneurial. It’s great, actually, like a relay system. The delivery comes to us first because of the sensitivity of our orders. We crosscheck all of the pharma stock and any new equipment, then the driver drops off the supplies to the supermarket, the salon and lastly the pub. After Cam takes his stock allocation, he loads up the truck with any catering we need for the week, and the driver comes back to drop it off here. It runs like clockwork, a lot better than the system we used to have. Plus having it all contained to Tuesdays means the truck can be leased out for the rest of the week, and Cam has some of the kids at the pub using it for regional delivery work to earn some extra money until it goes back to Sydney on Sunday. That’s what Aiden has been doing lately, long-haul freight deliveries. Cam is always looking for ways to support the local kids, offering them flexible work. We’ve talked about the brain drain that happens here—it’s o
ne way business owners can encourage people to stay on.’
The room feels like a vice closing in on me.
‘Sally Luther used to work for you,’ I blurt, ‘when you had the GP rooms.’
Eric brings his hands together and looks bewildered. ‘Yes, she did. She was a great girl, an excellent receptionist. She had decided to stay here because of her boyfriend and do university by correspondence, but she was keen to earn some money. It was devastating to lose her.’ Eric stretches out his back. ‘It does feel a little like déjà vu with Abbey and now Aiden disappearing. Cam called me yesterday, checking to see if I’d heard from Aiden. He sounded quite worried.’
‘Fuck!’ I exclaim.
Eric jumps at my outburst.
I fumble to open the door and am vaguely aware of it slamming against the wall as I race out to the car park.
Sunday, 17 April
12.53 pm
I jump back in Simon’s car and jab my finger toward the road. ‘We need to get back to the pub! Now!’
He nods, snapping his laptop shut and tossing it into the back seat like a frisbee.
I call Tran and shout a message for her to send back-up to the pub.
Cam’s at the centre of everything. Rick, Aiden, Sally, Greg. Abbey. Maybe Dale Marx. He is the access point into Fairhaven, blinding his young disciples with the promise of money they had only dreamed of. Dread and bile churn in my stomach.
‘Going to tell me what’s happening?’ Simon asks.
‘My little boy is there,’ I take a shaky breath, ‘and I think he murdered Rick Fletcher.’ I fold my lips together. ‘And maybe Abbey too.’
Simon glances at me. ‘What? Who murdered them?’
‘Cam O’Donnell!’
Simon is shaking his head. ‘O’Donnell? But I thought Daniel Clark killed Rick Fletcher. Dot’s going to make a statement, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Police radio.’
I throw him a look. ‘Just hurry.’
Fairhaven flies past. My knees are pressed to the glove box. Simon weaves around storm debris, and my organs lurch as if I’m on a rollercoaster on the cusp of the biggest drop.
The pub looms large up ahead, gold letters glittering, the hard angles of the roof offset against the vivid blue sky and steady stream of wispy white clouds.
‘Cam was friendly with the former chief inspector,’ says Simon. ‘There were heaps of times when his liquor licence should have been pulled for serving underage kids, but he never even got a slap on the wrist. I think he’s had a tougher time with Tommy but, you know, if you run the local pub in a place like this, I guess you’re kind of untouchable.’
I nod but think only of Ben. The past few weeks of confusion have faded away and sharpened to the clearest of points: he is everything.
Through this moment of clarity, Simon’s comment eventually reaches my brain.
‘Was Cam questioned over the disappearances?’ I ask.
‘Abbey’s?’
‘No,’ I say, exasperated, ‘Greg and Sally’s.’
‘I assume so. I mean, he was the last person to see Greg. And obviously he reported the money stolen from the takings that night, which played into the theory they ran away.’
We turn too fast into the car park and hit the kerb. I fall hard against the door.
Greg was working for Cam. Rick was working for Cam. It all comes back to Cam. Not Eric.
‘Sorry,’ says Simon, swinging into a park, ‘I don’t understand what’s—’
My feet hit the ground before the car has come to a complete stop. ‘Just wait here,’ I bark. Simon’s hands are still glued to the wheel. ‘Back-up is coming.’
A group of people stand in a circle near the main entrance, regaling each other with storm damage stories as I run over.
‘Our entire front yard is a disaster zone,’ says a woman, pulling hard at her dog’s leash.
‘Our cubbyhouse is toast,’ says another.
‘I had to get out the chainsaw this morning,’ says one of the men, rocking back on his heels and pushing up his shirtsleeves. ‘The yard was a bloody nightmare.’
‘It’s not open yet, love.’ The lady with the dog is smiling at me, orange lipstick on her teeth. ‘Apparently it’s flooded.’
I ignore her and push on the door. It swings shut behind me with a dull thud.
Inside, the lights aren’t on and the absence of music gives the place a sinister feel, like an abandoned theme park. My pupils dilate as my nose tunes into a nasty medley of smells: beer fumes, garbage, stale aftershave and damp carpet. Water drips from one of the light fittings above where the band usually plays; a bucket has been placed underneath.
I cross the floor, every nerve firing. What if I’m too late?
The last time I was too late—Nicki Mara was dead, her face frozen in a scream for help that no one heard.
A metallic bang comes from the kitchen. I cut through the bar and push open the door.
Ben. Ben is here, carefully emptying a bucket into a big stainless-steel sink. My relief is almost painful. ‘Ben, baby, I’m so glad you’re here. I need you to come with me.’
‘We’re helping Cam clean,’ he says, his eyes on the water pouring from the bucket. ‘It flooded last night and everything is wet.’
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Where’s Mac?’
‘He’s upstairs—he’s trying to fix one of the pipes.’
‘Quickly, Ben!’ I hiss.
He looks up, confused. ‘But, Mum, we’re not finished.’
‘Now.’ I gesture wildly and Ben sighs, putting the bucket down just as Cam enters the kitchen from the storeroom next to the fridge. His T-shirt rides up his lean torso, and his arm muscles strain as he struggles with a large plastic tub full of cleaning items. ‘Gemma! What a nice surprise.’ His eyes lack their usual warmth. ‘Might just shut this.’
He ducks behind me and closes the door to the bar. Everything goes quiet.
When Cam spins around, he flashes me a giant smile. ‘What a bloody disaster, hey? The roof leaked and the electrics have shorted.’ He hoists the big tub onto the stove and wrenches his hands free. ‘Cripes, that’s heavy,’ he says, out of breath, leaning against the oven and stretching his fingers.
His eyes don’t leave mine as he picks up an industrial lighter with a long red handle, his index finger resting on the trigger.
‘We need to leave, actually,’ I say. ‘I was just coming to get Ben. Family business.’
Cam rocks slowly back on his heels. ‘That’s a shame, I could use a friend right now. I’ve just had some bad news about my brother.’
It swirls through the room. A hostility. A recklessness. I pray like mad he can’t smell my fear.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but we have to go. Come on, Ben.’ I gesture to him and try to smile. ‘We’ll grab Mac and get out of your hair.’
Cam’s mouth twists into a horrible boyish grin. ‘Mac’s good with a task, isn’t he? He’s surprisingly handy. I think he’ll be busy upstairs for some time.’
My heart starts to punch out of my chest.
‘What’s the rush anyway, Gemma? An important lead? A new case?’
‘We just really need to go,’ I say, my voice firm as I hold my hand out to Ben.
Cam eyes me coolly and steps over to where Ben is standing. My fingers twitch at my sides. If I pull my gun on him now, there will be no other way out of this but a showdown—I can’t let that happen.
Cam’s left hand rest on Ben’s shoulders. The tip of the lighter touches the bottom of his T-shirt.
My spine is a steel blade.
‘Why don’t you go, Gemma, and sort things out? Ben can stay here with me. We can’t have him getting tangled up in something dangerous.’ Cam bends down so he’s level with Ben. ‘Right, buddy?’ he says, squeezing him affectionately.
Ben nods, his small frame tense under Cam’s grip.
‘Please, Cam,’ I beg. ‘Don’t.’
‘I don’t like the way y
ou’re looking at me,’ he tells me with mock sadness. ‘What’s changed, Gemma? I was nice to your boyfriend this week, hiding him away in your old room.’ He juts out his hip. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘Stop it, Cam, you’re scaring him!’
The last traces of lightness fall from his face and it hardens into a mask.
‘Let him go,’ I hiss.
‘Sorry, I can’t do that.’
Ben’s eyes are slits. Lips pressed together, nostrils flaring.
I feel dizzy, pale spots swirling through my vision.
Our nightmare blooms in front of me like a bloodstain.
‘The police are coming,’ I say.
Cam laughs as a mottled flush creeps up his neck. ‘I think the police are pretty busy following up last night’s events. I’ve managed to get a few updates of my own this morning. It’s handy having friends in high places.’
I have no idea if he’s bluffing, but surely Tran has picked up my message by now and Simon has called for help. Please, please.
‘The note on my car, that was you,’ I blurt out.
He smirks, pulling Ben backwards against him. Ben flinches. ‘Yes. I did some research. I have to say, I was delighted when someone left that possum for you. It’s not my style but I thought it was very effective. And then instead of bailing, you just moved in with the local plod.’ He tips his head at me as if we’re in on the same joke. ‘Based on where we’re standing right now, I think we can all agree you should have left.’
‘What did you do to Abbey?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I didn’t touch that silly bitch.’
Alone. Trapped in a square of blackness. My whole body screaming. I turned to ice as his hands burned me, poisoned me. Finger of fear choked me. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breathe. Eyes that had always been so kind were suddenly tunnels to pure evil.
‘Yes you did,’ I say. ‘That’s why she started calling in sick at work and avoided coming here. She was scared of you.’
‘Bullshit.’ Spittle flies out of his mouth.
Ben blinks.
‘She wrote about you in her diary.’
‘Abbey was nuts. I mean, who wouldn’t be, growing up in that family? But she’s gone now anyway, so who cares?’