The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  ‘How did they get those pictures?’ His voice seemed distant. ‘There was no media there.’

  ‘They’re wire photos.’ Bryce prodded at the bottom right of one of the images, where a small AAP credit was hidden. ‘Everyone’s got the same three shots, so the bastards must have sent a stringer out.’

  Emmett felt a shooting pain behind his eyes. Not only had some photographer managed to potentially screw up their investigation, but they’d beaten his wife to it too. This was bad on all fronts.

  ‘Can we ask them to take the images down?’

  His boss scoffed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. But we’ll have to draft some kind of statement, and be prepared for a press conference – I reckon I can hold them off ’til tomorrow, but that’ll be about it.’

  Emmett waited to see if Bryce would say any more, but the superintendent simply returned to staring at the computer, leaving him and his new partner to awkwardly retreat.

  As he walked the corridor back towards the circle of case file boxes and notes, Emmett’s mind whirred with disconnected worries. Beside him, Lanh seemed to be almost bouncing along, as though quite literally readying himself to spring into action.

  ‘Cut that out,’ he muttered, stepping into his office and closing the door sharply so that Lanh was stranded on the outside.

  He needed to phone Cecilia’s parents and warn them: their grief was front-page news once again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The concrete was spattered with blood and bits of gunk, and Leicester smiled as he filled a bucket and used it to wash the area down. Another successful outing.

  Packing his equipment away, he surveyed the contents of his Esky: four squid, a decent-sized trevally, and plenty of garfish. It was far from his best haul, but given the short window he’d had, it was more than acceptable.

  ‘Morning.’ He nodded to a local angler who’d set up residence less than a metre down the pier.

  ‘Good catch?’ the man asked without taking his eyes off his own line.

  ‘Not too shabby.’

  Ideally, he liked to fish in the late afternoon, preferably as dusk set in, when the waters were still and the salmon and whiting came out to play, but it wasn’t worth the stress on the weekends. He sighed, side-stepping to avoid a group of visitors taking photos. Now that his beloved town had become something of a tourist hot spot, weekends at the waterfront meant competing with recreational boaters, divers, and the gaggle of people who insisted on cramming the marina with their stupid selfie sticks and mobile phones.

  He lifted his Esky into the passenger side of his old truck, then climbed into the driver’s seat.

  No, that wasn’t what fishing was about. It was a quiet activity, meant to be done in solitude.

  Pulling into his driveway, he avoided the gaze of the new people next door, and made a point of closing the gate behind him. Then he took his precious Esky inside, moving everything but the squid into the freezer.

  Humming, he pulled out a chopping board and began cutting up the tentacles, his mouth salivating as he imagined the fresh salt and pepper calamari that he would enjoy that evening, probably with a beer, his feet up and the footy on the radio.

  But then another thought entered his mind. Perhaps Greg would like to join him?

  It had been a while since they’d caught up in person, the sergeant busy with his new role at the Sorrento station. But it would be good to see his former colleague, and yes, get the latest on the investigation into Cecilia May.

  Leicester carefully placed the squid pieces into a container and sealed the lid. After years of silence he’d fully intended on letting that girl’s disappearance lie, but ever since those cold case detectives had visited, he could think of little else. And if those bones were hers . . .

  He shuddered, quickly rinsing his hands under the kitchen tap before moving into the spare room. From under the lower bunk bed – the one he kept made in the vain hope that Scarlett might one day wander through the door, keen for a chat and a place to stay the night – he retrieved his folders, stuffed full of notes, clippings and photos.

  He brought them to the lounge room coffee table, flipping each open and scanning hopefully through the information.

  The typed pages were copies of the official case file documents, while the handwritten notes were observations he’d made himself, taken from the casual interviews he’d conducted throughout the years: the chats with the Greek guy who manned the small general store up on Melbourne Road, where Leicester knew Scarlett and her friends had sneakily taken his coins to exchange for lollies and gum; the many arduous conversations with the batty naturopath down the end of the street, who Leicester was certain was selling more than traditional medicines from her overgrown garden; the unhelpful exchanges with the local surfers; the offhand comments from neighbours, delivery workers, publicans . . . And then, of course, there was Warren Turton.

  Leicester’s throat constricted as he unclipped a thick wad of papers.

  He’d been so close to nailing the bastard, yet somehow the slimy prick had got away, managing to slip through his grasp at the last minute. He shook his head, inhaling sharply.

  He remembered vividly the day he’d received the call, his cop mate warning him that Warren was about to be released, all charges dropped. It had seemed unreal, even impossible, but then came news of his sudden alibi.

  Leicester bit his lower lip, tasting blood. How had that coward managed to convince the Reverend to testify on his behalf? It was a question that had been taunting him for years.

  He flipped his pages of notes, coming to a map of the national park, where a red circle was marked. That’s where the charred shell of Warren’s car had been discovered, the black wreckage leaving little for authorities to examine.

  He stared at it for a while, then shook his head. It would only take one more piece of evidence – or one convincing witness – to ensure that man was put away for good.

  Pulling out his phone, he messaged Greg.

  Keen for a catch-up tonight? The beer’s on me.

  His mate’s response pinged immediately.

  Deal. 7 pm?

  Standing up, Leicester returned to the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the shelves to ensure it was in fact well stocked. Then he returned to his paperwork, using the back of one of his sheets to jot down all the questions he wanted to ask:

  – Have the remains been identified?

  – Do they give any indication of how the girl died?

  – How did they end up on the beach?

  – Have you established a timeline?

  He paused to shake out his fingers from gripping the pen too tightly.

  He would sit up all night with Greg if he had to, he decided, gritting his teeth as he contemplated every possible line of inquiry. He would find out everything he could about the bones on the beach, and then he’d find the link to Warren Turton.

  Leicester rolled his neck, feeling a slight pinch down his left side.

  That creep would not escape him again.

  ‘But you said you’d take me,’ Nicholas moaned, his lips dropping to a full pout. ‘We were going to race down the slippery dip. You promised.’

  Emmett watched his stroppy son reluctantly allow his mum to tie his shoes.

  ‘Daddy has to work today, darling.’ Cindy tugged at the laces. ‘But I’ll be there, and so will the other parents.’

  ‘I don’t want you. I want Dad.’

  ‘That’s enough, Nicholas.’ Emmett bent down so that he was at eye level with his son. ‘We can go to the playcentre together another time – just you and me. But that’s only if you’re good.’

  ‘And I bet none of your friends will get to see their dad on TV today. That’s pretty special, isn’t it?’ Cindy gave Emmett a wink.

  ‘Are you really going to be on the TV?’ Nicholas crossed his arms suspiciously.

  ‘Probably. We’re speaking with some reporters this morning, so they might put that on the news tonight.’

  Th
is seemed an acceptable answer, and Nicholas begrudgingly allowed Cindy to lift him off the ground and lead him out to the car.

  Emmett waved them off, happily returning to the quiet of the empty house, where he finished the last of his coffee and considered his day. As much as he hated kids’ birthday parties, he hated press conferences even more, and would have much rather’d been spending the morning at the sideline of a grubby jumping castle than standing in front of dozens of judging eyes, facing an onslaught of endless questions. But what choice was there?

  He frowned, flicking through his emails on his phone and running over the checklist again. Those bloody stringer photos had ruined any chance of proceeding quietly with the investigation, and now they were left playing catch-up. Still, he sipped his coffee and felt his shoulders drop, at least Cindy hadn’t been too upset about someone else getting the images. He’d been dreading telling her about the AAP shots, expecting another heated battle, but instead she’d been remarkably composed.

  ‘Oh well,’ she’d simply whispered, ‘I’m sure there’ll be other stories.’

  It had been a relief to move on, and Emmett hoped that would be the last of their professional clashes.

  ‘Detective Corban speaking.’ He’d grabbed the phone without checking the caller ID.

  ‘It’s Marie from forensics, is now a good time?’

  Emmett sat up straighter. ‘Of course – go ahead.’ He hadn’t expected to hear from the forensic anthropologist over the weekend, but it was a welcome surprise.

  ‘I’ve begun the biological profile of your victim, and have some immediate observations, which might be helpful,’ the woman got straight to it. ‘The skeleton is of a pubescent female, Caucasian ancestry, average stature, about 150 centimetres tall. I’ve estimated an age of fourteen to sixteen. There are no immediate signs of trauma to suggest cause of death, but as you know this analysis can take some time. I do have something that could speed up identification for you though.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘There’s an orthopaedic implant in the right knee. Do you know if your missing person had any significant sports injuries?’

  A lump formed in Emmett’s throat as he pictured the photo of Cecilia beaming during a hockey match. ‘I suspect that’s likely,’ he murmured. ‘But I’ll check her medical files when I’m back at my desk.’

  After ending the call, he wandered out to the courtyard and sat on the deck, staring vacantly at his empty coffee cup. The bones belonged to Cecilia May, there was little doubt.

  Rubbing his eyes, he began plotting the best course of action: he’d have to garner more support from local stations on the peninsula, reinterview all the main players, launch a public appeal – perhaps offer a reward for new information, get some tracking set up on their main suspect . . . He stopped as the alarm on his phone started sounding.

  For now – Emmett groaned, forcing himself up and out of his chair – he had to go and stand in front of a pack of reporters, all the while pretending he had no idea who the victim could be.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The damage was obvious before he’d even made it up the hill, the bright red letters standing out among the otherwise brown and green landscape. Slowing, Warren squeezed the handlebars of his bike, wishing he could just ride on, pretend the vulgar graffiti was directed at someone else.

  Instead, he stopped at the base of his long disused driveway, staring glumly at his house. PEDO SCUM was sprayed across the front, the paint almost glowing in its freshness.

  He shook his head. He’d only been out to get milk and bread from the grocery store; he couldn’t have been gone for more than fifteen minutes. Had someone been watching him?

  Pushing his bicycle up the slope, he approached cautiously, aware the vandal could still be nearby, waiting to ambush him.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he yelled, dropping his bike and spinning on the spot to see if anyone stirred. A rustle in the overgrown azalea shrubs suggested he’d managed to scare a small animal, but little else.

  He walked to the side tap, where the hose was connected. With the water running at the highest setting, he proceeded to stalk the grounds of his modest property, soaking every possible hiding spot in an icy spray. Still, no one emerged.

  After hopelessly pointing the water at the stubborn red paint, he gave up, returning the hose and collecting his bike and the plastic bag with groceries that was lying forlornly nearby.

  Inside, he took the shovel that he’d left in the hallway and searched the few rooms, using a toe to push each door open, keeping back, the steel blade of his weapon held high and menacing.

  When he was certain of his safety, he put the spade down, packed his shopping items away and sat glumly at the kitchen table. He’d planned on treating himself to French toast that morning, using the last of the fresh lemons to grate rind over the top with some icing sugar, but he had little appetite now.

  The clock above the doorway ticked ever louder and Warren stared at the hands, which mercilessly continued their cyclical journey.

  He let out a long, slow sigh.

  Was it time to move on? Was it time to leave?

  The press conference had gone surprisingly smoothly, the small pack of reporters seemingly as unimpressed at working on a weekend as he was, their questions rudimentary and relatively painless.

  ‘But you’re not ruling out a connection to the missing Blairgowrie girl?’

  ‘We’re not ruling anything out at this stage, and we are continuing to follow several lines of inquiry.’

  ‘When do you expect to have an identity?’

  ‘Within the week.’

  ‘Any idea how the victim died?’

  ‘The death is being treated as suspicious. That’s all I can say for the time being.’

  Emmett had been happy to end the briefing quickly, leaving the press to ruminate on possible further angles while he made the short trip from the media centre to the police headquarters in West Melbourne.

  ‘Any issues?’ Lanh greeted him in the foyer, balancing a tray of hot drinks.

  ‘No, all good.’ He counted at least four takeaway cups in the cardboard carrier. ‘What’s all that for?’

  ‘The superintendent’s come in. He’s waiting for you in the conference room.’

  Emmett hesitated. ‘You go ahead, I want to check something in Cecilia May’s files first.’ He ducked into his office, grabbing a red folder from one of the boxes of evidence before continuing down the corridor, flicking through the few pages of medical history as he walked.

  He found what he was looking for just as he arrived, the boardroom doors swinging open to reveal several faces staring expectantly at him.

  ‘About time,’ Bryce barked. ‘I’ve assembled your team.’

  Emmett immediately zoned in on the bright smile of Bianca Tardio, the homicide detective he’d spoken to in the kitchen only the day prior. Flynn Ambers was there too – one of the cold case detectives he’d been inducted with – and then there was Lanh and Bryce. But why was Calvin Briggs at the table?

  ‘Aren’t you leading the Jimmy Lucas case?’ he addressed the seasoned detective.

  ‘I am, but the superintendent thought it was a good idea for me to be briefed on your investigation, so I can give you guidance as needed.’

  Emmett nodded, aware of his boss’s searing gaze through the back of his head. He turned to find Bryce impatiently holding a whiteboard pen in his direction. I’m being monitored. Shuffling to the front, he accepted the marker, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts.

  ‘On the evening of September 22, 1998, Cecilia Lee May vanished while on a walk with two friends in Blairgowrie. A missing persons investigation was subsequently conducted, which resulted in the arrest of a local man by the name of Warren Turton. Mr Turton had a history of child sexual offences, having previously been charged with child grooming and one count of an indecent act with a child under the age of sixteen.’

  ‘When was this?’ Bryce interrupted.

 
‘The prior offence occurred sometime in the early 1990s, but I’d have to check the exact date.’

  The superintendent frowned. Emmett felt his cheeks burn.

  ‘That aside, Mr Turton initially admitted stalking and killing Cecilia May, but would not cooperate on revealing details of her death or where he had disposed of her body. His car was found burnt out in the Point Nepean National Park, but forensic testing of the vehicle was inconclusive, and searches around the area failed to find the teenager’s remains. Mr Turton later recanted his admission and relied on the alibi of a local Reverend, who testified that the men had been together at his church in Sorrento on the evening that Ms May disappeared.’

  He stopped, checking his colleagues were following his slightly rushed stream of dialogue.

  ‘As you’ll be aware, bones were found on a Blairgowrie back beach earlier this week. These remains have been with a forensic anthropologist, whose preliminary findings suggest a female victim of the same age, build, and ethnicity as Cecilia May.’ He opened the red folder he’d placed on the table before him and took out a single page. ‘Of particular interest, an orthopaedic implant was found in the right knee of the skeleton. A quick search through Ms May’s medical history has revealed the teenager underwent surgery on that same knee in early 1996, after suffering a sports injury. Given all this, it’s my intention to proceed as if a formal identification has been confirmed.’

  The scratching of pens on paper sounded as he waited for any questions and Emmett found himself stupidly passing Cecilia’s medical history to Calvin Briggs, as though he needed proof to back up his words. Calvin merely glanced at the page before pushing it away.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Flynn was the first to look up from his notebook. ‘Go back to the two survivors?’

  ‘Yes, it’s certainly a priority to reinterview Scarlett Reyes and Gypsy Chu.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ Bianca asked.