‘We believe this could be the gravesite of your friend.’ Bianca’s voice softened.
Gina didn’t react, her expression completely blank. ‘Well, that’s terrible,’ she eventually whispered.
After wrapping things up, Emmett walked her to the foyer and joined Bianca at the railing, looking down the four floors of the mostly empty police headquarters.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, noticing his colleague’s pensive expression.
Bianca shrugged. ‘Impossible to say at this stage; she doesn’t give much away.’
‘She sure doesn’t,’ Emmett agreed, waiting for the dark-haired woman to emerge from the multiple sets of escalators.
There was something unnerving about Gina Harper, he decided, watching the petite figure appear below them. She’d hesitated before every answer; each word, each syllable, was so carefully selected. Even her physical movements had appeared stilted: an arm raised just so; a hand twisted to just the right angle. It was as though she was a mannequin that someone else was manoeuvring.
‘Not the least bit bothered by the investigation,’ Bianca muttered, as the woman slung a beige handbag over a shoulder.
‘No.’ Emmett waited until she’d left the building, not once looking back. ‘Young Gypsy Chu has grown into an ice queen.’
The Portsea Hotel had sounded like a quiet place to have a drink on a Saturday night, the online pictures promising an outdoor deck with seaside views. Instead, Pippa found herself elbowing her way through a throng of half-dressed people, their sweaty bodies pressed up against each other in a dark room.
She finally made it to the bar, taking a napkin from the counter to dab at her forehead. Gross.
‘What can I get you?’
Scanning the rows of liquor behind the barman, she hesitated, unable to decide on anything that didn’t make her sound young or girly. ‘Have you got a decent house white?’
‘We sure do. Can I see some ID?’
She rifled through her jeans pocket, self-consciously pulling out her passport.
‘A visitor, hey? Well you’ve chosen the right place. Here you go.’
Taking the wine, she pushed her way back through the mass of people and found the doorway to the deck, the rush of cold air providing instant relief. This is more like it.
Immediately ahead, an inviting green lawn met the ocean. She moved forward, transfixed by the beckoning horizon and wondering why no one else had taken up space on the grass.
‘I don’t think so, love.’ A security guard emerged from the shadows, blocking her path.
‘What?’ She looked at the man in confusion, and then to the sign he was pointing at, which warned her not to take alcoholic beverages off the premises. ‘Oh, right, sorry.’ Pippa shuffled slightly backwards. Moron.
‘Watch it.’ Two large women came bursting past, bumping her heavily as they struggled to balance several pitchers of drink. They stumbled to a table, where a boisterous group was gathered under blue-and-white umbrellas. They looked to be on a hens’ night – the area decorated with tasteless depictions of men’s genitalia.
Cringing, Pippa decided to avoid the raucous crowd. She followed the deck around to the right, where she was happy to find some spare tables at the side. Choosing a spot against the wall, she sipped unenthusiastically at the cheap, tart wine, before slipping a hand up her t-shirt, feeling for the travel pouch that hung from her neck. The small pocket lay flat against her stomach and she fiddled with its zip, relieved to find it still tightly closed.
‘Are those seats taken?’ A sharp jab at a shoulder blade caused her to spin around.
A group of young men were gathering at the table behind her, the extras without chairs hovering awkwardly around their mates.
A pang of loneliness. I’m just waiting for some friends. That’s what she wanted to say. Instead she shook her head mutely, then added, ‘Take them. They’re all yours.’
‘Cheers,’ her new best friend beamed, the white of his teeth extra bright against his perfect skin.
She turned away, ignoring the desire to make conversation with the good-looking stranger and choosing instead to mull over her plan. Her first month in Australia had been spent strawberry-picking at a farm in Healesville, to recoup some of the money she’d spent on the flight out here. Now that she’d finally made it to Blairgowrie, she needed to use her time wisely.
Pippa watched a seagull swoop before her, appearing to consider the possibility of joining her at the table before realising she was without food. What should my first move be? She tapped her fingertips on the base of the wine glass. Find the street where the girls were staying. Her throat tightened. And him. She sipped at the wine again.
‘You’re not on your own, are you?’ Another sharp poke jolted her out of her thoughts.
Pippa swivelled in her chair. The handsome young man was staring at her intently, the brown of his eyes warm and friendly.
‘No, I’m just . . . Well, sort of, yes.’
The man smiled. ‘Let’s push the tables together and you can join us. You’re not from around here, I’m guessing?’
‘No.’ Pippa relaxed, happy for the company. ‘On holiday.’
‘Well you’ve come to the most popular place in town, as you can probably tell. And if you want the surf ’n’ turf you should order early – it always sells out.’
‘Good to know,’ she laughed, doing a quick scan of the rest of the group. They were all about the same age – twenty-somethings, and all eyes were upon her. ‘I take it you’re a local, then?’
‘Sure am!’ The man’s grin was so wide it seemed to stretch to his ears. ‘I’m Tobias.’ He extended his left hand and squeezed her palm in his. ‘And these blokes are all my mates from the local footy club – although I haven’t been able to play at all this season.’
‘Why’s that? Injured?’ Pippa pushed the tart wine aside, accepting a pint poured by a man opposite.
‘Nah, Tobias is a big-time cop these days.’ Another guy leant in, droplets of moisture spraying from his lips as he spoke. ‘Too good for us now, aren’t you, mate?’
‘You’re a policeman?’ She sat up stiffly, the cold from the beer she was holding suddenly shooting through her fingertips.
‘That’s right!’ Tobias beamed. ‘Been in the job seven months now. Love it.’
‘Great.’ She forced a small gulp of the drink, the taste mixing badly with the wine that was still on her lips. ‘And you’re based around here?’
‘Yep! I’m at the Sorrento station, so I look after the top of the peninsula – pretty much everything from Rye up.’
‘Sounds impressive.’ Pippa took another sip. ‘Any interesting cases at the moment?’ She asked the question as casually as she could. Then she discreetly placed one hand over her belly, the travel pouch around her neck feeling heavy and conspicuous.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The knock at the door woke her with a jolt and Scarlett sat up, dizzy and confused. What time was it? She crawled forward on her bed and reached to pull the curtain back. Urgh. Bright light blinded her.
Squinting, she dropped the material so that her room returned to its cover of darkness. She attempted to lie back down, but the moment her head touched the pillow a dull ache throbbed across her temple, a swell of nausea threatening to break from her stomach.
Bloody hell. She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and propped herself up again, letting her spine curl so that she was hunched forward.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’
It was a male voice, accompanied by another heavy bang on the door. What kind of maniac would be bothering her so early on a Sunday morning? She struggled to a standing position, finding fluffy gold slippers near the bedstand, a white robe sprawled on the floor.
Turning the lock, she noticed smudges of black on her hands. What is that? Mascara? She spat on her fingertips and wiped around her eyes, hoping she’d fixed whatever the mess had been.
‘What do you want?’ She opened the door just e
nough to poke her head out.
A young Asian man was leaning in, too close for her liking.
‘I’m from the police.’ He presented a badge. ‘Here to talk about Cecilia May.’
The nauseous feeling she’d been quelling now rose violently up her throat, and Scarlett placed two hands over her mouth. ‘Hold on,’ she mumbled before running down the short hallway to the bathroom. She made it just in time, throwing the toilet seat back as she vomited.
Once she’d cleaned herself up, she returned to the doorway, quietly hoping the man had left. He hadn’t.
‘Detective Lanh Nguyen.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘And this is my colleague, Detective Flynn Ambers.’
Scarlett opened the door wider, surprised to discover a second officer standing there: tall, skinny and red-haired. She reluctantly waved them both in. ‘I had a bit of a late night,’ she muttered sheepishly, as though her state of undress didn’t make that obvious.
‘We did come past yesterday.’ It was the redhead who spoke, as the men sat on the one couch in her poky lounge room while she hovered awkwardly nearby. ‘And we left a couple of messages on your phone . . .’
Scarlett cringed. She’d seen several missed calls, but she’d presumed it had been her friend, Sophie, complaining about being stood up. Why hadn’t she bothered to listen to the voice messages?
‘Well, what do you need?’ She crouched on the floor by the coffee table, self-consciously hugging the satin robe tighter around her clammy body.
‘Cecilia’s bones have been found on a beach in Blairgowrie,’ the younger man said, staring at her without blinking. ‘So we need you to tell us what you remember from the night she disappeared.’
Scarlett licked her lips, noticing something stuck in her throat. She tried clearing her airways and ended up coughing uncontrollably.
‘I didn’t realise those remains had been confirmed as hers,’ she eventually managed, through wheezy gasps. ‘Besides, I’ve already told the police everything. We did interviews at the time and nothing has—’
‘Your friend Gypsy spoke to us yesterday,’ the man cut her off. ‘She was happy to cooperate.’
‘Really? What did she say?’
‘She said there was some tension between you and Cecilia that night. That you didn’t always get along?’
‘What?’ Another violent lurch rose in her stomach. Was she going to be sick again? Scarlett rubbed her stomach.
‘There’s nothing to be concerned about.’ The taller detective raised a hand. ‘We’re just going over all the information again. What we’d like is for you to come to the station and do a formal interview – it’s entirely voluntary, but I’m sure you understand that every little detail could be important.’
‘I’d really prefer not to.’ Scarlett stood up, noticing a shooting pain radiating from behind her ears and down her neck. Just how much did I drink last night? Was Dean suffering as much as she was? ‘That whole experience was traumatic. I haven’t even been able to go back to Blairgowrie since it happened, and I certainly don’t need the stress of living through it all again.’
‘Will you at least think about it?’ The redhead sighed, as though she was being incredibly difficult.
‘Of course.’ She took the men’s cards and tossed them on a table. Then she walked them out, the door giving a satisfying thud as she closed it behind them and flicked the deadlock.
When she got back to her bedroom, she took her phone from the charger and scrolled through her list of contacts, noticing the irregular beating of her heart. She found the name she was looking for and tentatively pressed the call button. There was no getting around it – the ghost of Cecilia May would not rest easy.
‘It sounds like that didn’t go well at all.’ Bianca shook her head, chuckling softly as she hung up the phone.
‘Oh?’ Emmett forced himself to keep his eyes on the road. ‘Scarlett wouldn’t talk?’
‘Not at all. According to Ambers, your new partner immediately got off on the wrong foot with her and she clammed up.’
‘Geez. Good one, Lanh.’
‘Mm, but he also said she reeked of alcohol and couldn’t sit still: a bundle of nerves, was the expression he used. So she was probably never going to give us much.’
‘Right. So, Scarlett is the polar opposite of the ice queen we met yesterday?’
‘Apparently.’
‘I wonder if the girls were always so different,’ Emmett murmured, dropping the sun visor as he rounded a corner. They were headed back out to Blairgowrie, the foggy morning lifting to reveal a crisp autumn day.
‘Well, whatever they were like, they’ve clearly drifted apart since the disappearance.’
‘Or they want us to believe they have.’
‘What?’ Bianca snorted. ‘You’re back to your old conspiracy theories again?’
Emmett ignored the jab, but his mind was racing. What had Lanh said to him? If both girls are lying, they both know what happened to their friend. Maybe there was some truth to that.
‘So, tell me more about this alibi.’ Bianca changed tack.
‘For Warren Turton? Actually, he’s dead.’ Emmett sat up straighter in his seat, his left leg tingling as a numbness passed. ‘A Reverend by the name of Robert Innisberg provided the alibi, but he died of a heart attack a few weeks back.’
‘How convenient . . .’
‘He left a wife behind, and a son. I thought we could go to the church after we meet Warren and see if either were around.’
‘Church on a Sunday,’ Bianca smirked, placing both hands on the dashboard to steady herself as the car bounced, the gravel road they’d turned onto apparently shocking the car’s suspension. ‘If only my mum could see me now.’
As they crawled along Koonya Avenue, Emmett pointed to indicate the home of Leicester Reyes. ‘That’s where the girls were staying.’ He slowed, peering at the empty windows which gave no clue as to life inside. ‘Scarlett’s dad still lives there. And, supposedly, Warren’s place should be somewhere over this hill.’
A loud scraping sounded as the car brushed past overgrown bushes.
‘That’s a Sea Box,’ Bianca murmured appreciatively, her vision momentarily obscured by greenery.
Emmett watched his colleague lower her window, reaching out to pluck at a stray branch. He’d discovered her surprising love of plants during a previous investigation, but it still struck him as incongruous – the pragmatic woman now stroking the foliage in her palm.
‘See? You can tell by its leathery leaves.’
‘What is it that you find so—’ Emmett hit the brakes harder than intended. ‘Oh.’
Beside him, Bianca’s face had the expression of someone who’d just been punched in the stomach, her precious plant lost somewhere on the floor thanks to the sudden lurch forwards. She composed herself, a sly grin spreading across her face as she took in the giant red graffiti before them.
‘Pedo Scum,’ she read out loud. ‘How kind of someone to label the house for us.’
Emmett pulled out his phone and took a quick snap.
‘When do you suppose this was done?’ Bianca tilted her head.
‘Hard to say, but it looks pretty new, doesn’t it?’
‘Mm. I guess the discovery of the bones on the beach has stirred up some bad blood.’
‘He doesn’t appear to be the most popular man in town,’ Emmett laughed, leading the way from the car.
The property wasn’t large by any means, but the positioning of the building at the rear made for an unnecessarily long walk to the front door.
‘I wonder if he knows his tap is leaking?’ Bianca pointed to where a pool of water was quietly growing from the tip of a hose.
Emmett ignored it and walked around to the side of the house where the front door was, rapping loudly. ‘Mr Turton? Are you home?’
The creak of floorboards suggested they were in luck.
‘We phoned earlier,’ he spoke as the door opened. ‘I’m Detective Emmett Corban, and this
is my colleague, Detective Bianca Tardio.’
The man’s thin lips stayed flat. ‘Come in.’
Warren was pale and generally skinny, but an oversized t-shirt couldn’t hide the pot belly that was protruding from underneath. In his arms was a mess of wriggling fur. ‘This is Intruder,’ he said, by way of explanation, as they entered his small kitchen. ‘He decided to stay the night.’
Emmett smiled, but deliberately chose the seat furthest from Warren and the ugly fur ball. He’d never been overly keen on cats, and this one looked like a stray. Probably infected with all manner of parasites . . .
‘We appreciate you accommodating us at such short notice.’ He straightened his legs under the table, feeling a click in the right knee. ‘From the damage to your house, it seems like you’re already getting plenty of unwanted attention.’
A shadow fell over Warren’s face, any attempt at pleasantness dropping. ‘No thanks to you lot.’
‘Have you reported the vandals?’
‘To the local cops? Yeah right.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Bianca’s husky voice had its usual effect, causing Warren to startle.
‘They’re as guilty as anyone – trying to stitch me up. Too lazy to do any real investigating, so why not just pick on the weird guy and be done with it?’
‘You do have a history though, Mr Turton. And you admitted your guilt.’ Bianca’s cool bluntness didn’t seem to faze Warren in the slightest.
‘She was hardly my type,’ he muttered, letting the cat escape from his grip. It leapt to the floor and scampered out the door. ‘He’ll be gone for days now,’ he added, somewhat bitterly. ‘He doesn’t like strangers.’
‘Excuse me? Cecilia wasn’t your type?’ Bianca snarled. ‘How old were you, Mr Turton, when that girl disappeared?’
Warren pouted, but a glint in his eye suggested he wasn’t as disinterested in talking as he pretended. ‘I would have been in my late twenties, I guess. Only recently moved up from the city. I’d wanted to make a clean break from everything. But word got out, and no one can keep their mouth shut in this fucking town.’
The Girl Remains (Detective Corban) Page 9
