‘Word got out about your previous crimes?’
Warren rolled his eyes, a dismissive sound hissing from his throat. ‘Falling in love with one of your students is hardly a crime.’
‘You’d only recently graduated as a teacher, hadn’t you?’ Emmett couldn’t help interrupting. ‘I read your file. You became involved with a child from your class – a fifteen-year-old, wasn’t it?’
‘Jessie was almost sixteen.’ Warren’s cheeks reddened. ‘And we were in love. It was consensual.’
‘And is that what happened with Cecilia?’ Bianca’s voice softened. ‘You fell in love?’
For a moment Warren was silent, then a hearty laugh escaped from his mouth. ‘Are you kidding me?’ He chuckled, wiping at his eyes where tears were forming. ‘You lot really have no idea, do you?’
‘Mr Turton,’ Emmett sat up straighter, doing his best to stop his nose from twitching thanks to the cat hair, ‘I’m struggling to see how you find any of this funny. Cecilia is dead – we have her remains.’
The words were enough to stop the laughter from the other side of the table, but apart from that, Warren seemed unmoved. ‘Of course she’s dead. She’s been dead for years, everyone knows that. The problem for you lot is that you have no idea who killed her.’
Under the table, Emmett pressed the soles of his feet together. He hadn’t expected this man to be so cocky. ‘Tell us about your car.’
‘My car?’
‘Yes. The one that was found burnt out in the national park. What were you trying to get rid of?’
Warren scoffed. ‘Why would I set my own car on fire? I needed that piece of crap for my job. Ever since then I’ve been cycling everywhere like a flaming idiot.’
‘What job is that?’ Bianca asked.
‘I read meters.’ Warren’s eyes dipped, his reaction suggesting the menial job was more shameful than being accused of murder. ‘It’s a shit job, but it’s all I could get once people here knew my past, and I like working on my own. Most of the time it’s just recording gas and electricity usage, but every so often I get sent out to do disconnections. That’s always a win because those jobs pay better.’
‘I can’t imagine that’s a pleasant task though?’ Bianca smiled. ‘People must be angry when you do that.’
‘So what? People ’round here don’t like me anyway. May as well cut off their stupid utility supplies and make them really not like me.’
‘But back to your car . . .’ Emmett insisted. ‘How did it end up in the national park?’
‘Someone stole it,’ Warren shrugged. ‘I remember the night it happened. I was finishing up on my usual route of reading meters around Blairgowrie and Rye, and I’d left it running on View Road so I could take a leak in the public toilets in the park there.’
‘You left it running?’
‘Always did. Time is money in my job. You only get paid per meter.’
‘Okay.’
‘And when I got back to where it’d been, it was gone.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘Of course, but they didn’t believe me. I was already under suspicion for that girl’s disappearance, and they thought I was making it up.’
‘So this was after Cecilia vanished?’
‘Yeah, a few days later, maybe a week or so? Can’t remember exactly now.’
‘Did you file a formal report?’
‘Not sure. The cops weren’t interested at all. So maybe not.’
Emmett watched the former teacher shift uncomfortably in his seat. It was impossible to know what was true and what was years of well-rehearsed lies. Then a thought struck him.
‘This job you do,’ he paused, thinking of the best way to catch Warren out, ‘do you keep regular hours? Is it a Monday to Friday type thing?’
‘Yep. No point working weekends. Too many people at home.’
‘I see.’ Emmett nodded. ‘So your car must have been stolen on a weekday then?’
Warren’s face stiffened. Trying to remember what he initially told police. Emmett felt a rising satisfaction.
‘Guess so,’ he eventually shrugged.
‘Because in your sworn statement to detectives, when you first mentioned the theft, you told them it was stolen sometime during the weekend after Cecilia vanished.’
Warren’s thin lips flickered. His shoulders tensed.
No response.
‘Are you telling us, in all honesty, Mr Turton, that you had nothing to do with Cecilia May’s disappearance?’ Emmett made a point of sounding adequately exasperated.
Warren crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he said, his eyes bouncing between the detectives. ‘But I’m sick of saying that. And I don’t expect you to believe me.’
‘Tell me something.’ Bianca leant forward over the table, as though about to share friendly gossip. ‘If you didn’t do it, what made you admit to the crime in the first place?’
Warren reached for a water bottle, taking several loud gulps. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and sniffed. ‘I’m not sure.’ His voice flattened, gaze finally settling on the empty doorway, where the cat had last been. ‘It seemed like the police had made up their minds I was guilty, and I guess I just couldn’t be bothered fighting it anymore.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Well, he’s a cheery fellow,’ Bianca muttered as they made it back to the car.
Emmett opened the driver’s side and climbed in, waiting until both doors were closed before speaking. ‘Would you admit to a crime you hadn’t committed?’
‘Never in a million years.’
‘Me neither. So, what does that tell us?’
Bianca shrugged. ‘Either that Warren is guilty but realised the police didn’t have enough evidence to charge him. Or that he’s a nut job and likes the attention.’
Emmett chuckled. ‘You always see the best in people, don’t you?’
‘It comes with the territory.’
‘But what if he was covering for someone? Or he was threatened?’
‘I suppose that’s possible. But you want to know the best piece of advice I received when I started working in homicide?’
‘Go on.’
‘The simplest explanation is usually the right one. So if you’re asking me, Warren Turton is guilty. Unfortunately for us, he’s not an idiot. And once he realised all the evidence was circumstantial, he backed away.’
‘Maybe . . .’ Emmett frowned, staring up at the house, the angry red letters glaring back at him. ‘But something about that just doesn’t feel right . . .’
Bianca leant over and whacked the steering wheel. ‘How about we spend less time guessing and more time confessing.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s hurry up and get to church. Didn’t you say the late service ended at 11.30?’
Emmett started the ignition but made a point of driving at a painfully slow pace out of the driveway. ‘You’re a bit of a weirdo. You know that, don’t you?’
His colleague grinned. ‘Again,’ she jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp fingernail, ‘it comes with the territory.’
The Rye foreshore was teeming with people, visitors keen to catch the last of the autumn sunshine and locals meandering with dogs. Emmett eyed the gelato carts being set up on the grass, the children playing frisbee. A pang shot through his chest. Nicholas would love this.
‘Who would want to eat greasy fish and chips before midday?’ Bianca stuck her tongue out as they passed a busy little takeaway shop.
Emmett’s mouth began to salivate. He placed a hand on his stomach, willing it not to grumble. ‘The church should be somewhere up here on the left . . .’ He turned into Lyons Street, the GPS beeping to warn of an approaching school zone. ‘And it looks like we’re right on time.’
He’d pulled up outside a white stone building, from which several people were trickling out and onto the front lawn.
‘It’s more popular than I expected,’ Bianca snigge
red as they walked towards the cluster of mainly elderly singles.
‘Good morning.’ Emmett nodded to a man standing alone by the kerb. ‘We’re looking for Daphne Innisberg. You wouldn’t happen to know if she’s around?’
The man gestured over his right shoulder. ‘She’s probably still inside. If not, she’ll be in the back helping out with the morning tea.’
‘Thank you.’ Emmett motioned for Bianca to follow him.
They entered the church, the dark stillness causing both of them to pause. It was virtually empty, with just the odd person sitting on a pew, chin dropped to the chest in quiet contemplation or staring straight ahead.
Staying at the back, Emmett watched his colleague shuffle awkwardly through the small congregation, approaching each person as though a vicious dog that might bite, completing a lap of the room on exaggerated tiptoe before quickly returning.
‘The last time I saw you looking so uncomfortable was at that finance company we visited last year,’ he whispered, as they stepped back outside.
‘Churches are creepy. I don’t mind the stained-glass windows, but the rest?’
‘Well I’m just impressed that you didn’t catch on fire the moment you stepped inside.’ Emmett couldn’t help chuckling at his own humour.
Bianca rolled her eyes, then charged off down the side of the building towards a cream shed at the rear. When he caught up, she was already in conversation with an aproned woman.
‘This is Daphne Innisberg.’ She waved him over. ‘I was just explaining that we are reopening the investigation into the disappearance of Cecilia May.’
‘Such a tragedy.’ The woman shook her head, her entire face ageing in an instant. ‘That poor little girl. Her poor family.’
‘You remember it well?’ Emmett asked.
‘Of course, how could I not? It was so shocking, so . . .’ Daphne twisted her mouth, turning away from the detectives to fuss over a selection of biscuits and slices. ‘So terrifying,’ she eventually concluded.
‘Did you know the teenager – personally, I mean?’
‘No. But every night Robert and I prayed for her safe return. We even set up sleeping quarters for some of the search parties at St John’s when the town’s accommodation became booked out. For a while there it felt like every emergency service worker in the country had descended on our neighbourhood. And then one day, it all just stopped.’
Daphne lifted several plates, passing a few between Emmett and Bianca.
‘I need to let everyone in now. Would you mind putting these on the tables and then we can speak outside?’
‘Of course.’
The garden at the side of the church was beautifully maintained: a lush, green lawn with benches dedicated to those who’d moved on. Emmett led the way out, choosing a seat with a gold plaque: To Annabelle, my dearest.
‘We were sorry to hear of your husband’s passing,’ he said, as Bianca and Daphne sat opposite.
‘It happened so suddenly,’ the woman whispered, brushing at strands of grey hair that had fallen over her eyes. ‘The worst times are the mornings, when I wake and expect to find him lying at my side. Then I remember he’s gone, and the grief feels as raw as ever.’
Emmett nodded.
‘But I know that he’s in God’s care. I take comfort in that.’
‘I realise this might be painful for you.’ He leant forward, wishing the space between the benches wasn’t so great. ‘But your husband gave an alibi for a man by the name of Warren Turton. What can you tell us about that?’
It was impossible to know if Daphne’s reaction was a result of the clouds giving way to the sun, the bright rays suddenly hitting her face and causing her to squint, or if it was the thought of her husband’s connection to an established sex offender. Either way, the woman before him became twitchy, wiping at her eyes, the skin around them soon becoming blotchy and red.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be much good to you on that front.’ She finally left her face alone. ‘I didn’t have much to do with Mr Turton – he wasn’t a member of our congregation.’
‘But your husband obviously knew him?’
‘He was involved in his reading clubs, so yes.’ She smiled, nodding sadly. ‘Robert loved his books and he was excited to meet anyone who shared his passion. Mr Turton was one of only a few that regularly attended his events. I think they became fairly close over the course of all that.’
‘I see. And was that what they were doing on the night of Cecilia’s disappearance?’ Emmett asked. ‘Were they together at some kind of reading event?’
‘Actually, I wasn’t there – I was with my sister that night. She’d been in for surgery a few days earlier, and I’d been staying with her that week to assist with the recovery. I only heard about all this when I returned.’
‘But surely you discussed it at some point? You must have been curious about what happened that night and why your husband was giving the alibi?’
Daphne sat up straighter, shuffling slightly back on the bench. Though his tone had been gentle, there was no softening the bluntness of the words.
‘Of course we talked about it. Robert and I shared everything with each other. In fact, I was the one that told him he needed to go to the police. He’d been distressed by Mr Turton’s arrest, but also didn’t want to get involved. He kept assuming the detectives would realise the man’s innocence without his help, but eventually it became clear that he needed to come forward.’
‘And what was it that he told you they were doing together – something with books, I presume?’ Bianca asked.
For some reason, this made Daphne chuckle. She wiped her eyes again, before smiling gently. ‘Robert had actually called Mr Turton over for help because his bookcase had collapsed. Can you believe that? Too many hardcovers on the one shelf – I’d told him not to stack them like that, but do you think he listened? Anyway, they managed to fix it, but apparently it took all night, and poor Robert ended up with quite a colourful bruise across his face.’
‘He was injured?’
‘It was the top shelf that fell on him – came crashing down while he was trying to sneak in more literary novels, no doubt.’ Daphne’s eyes sparkled as another soft laugh escaped from her lips. ‘Goodness knows how many times I told him to stop buying the darn things. And now of course I’ve been left with the monumental task of clearing them all out . . .’ She stopped, seemingly lost in the pain of her grief. Emmett watched with interest as she fiddled with the ties on her apron, her movements suddenly helpless, childish.
He waited for what seemed like an acceptable length of time.
‘I have to ask you this, Mrs Innisberg.’ He placed two hands by his thighs on the bench, steadying himself as he leant further forward. ‘Did you believe your husband? Did you believe that he and Warren Turton were together fixing a bookcase on the night that Cecilia May disappeared?’
For a moment it was as though she hadn’t heard him, the question left hovering awkwardly over them, filling the space between the benches. Then the lines on her forehead deepened, her lips thin.
‘Yes. I believed my husband.’ Daphne squeezed her hands together until the tips of her fingers reddened. ‘Why would you even think to ask me that? Robert was a good man. Why would he have been lying?’
The papers were stacked in a circle, rather like a clockface, with twelve piles to mark the digits. Lanh sat in the middle, crouched on his knees, switching from one to the next, jumping between different interviews and investigators.
What bothered him most was not the inconsistency between witness statements – that was common, particularly over the course of what was now more than twenty years – but that neither of the two survivors’ stories had changed much at all. It was as though both Gina and Scarlett had picked a story to run with and were sticking to it no matter what: no sudden recollections, no questioning of their own memories, no realising they might be mistaken about something – just absolute, unwavering certainty.
From the stack di
rectly behind him, he retrieved the notes from Emmett’s recent interview with Gina Harper. There were some additions to her side of the story, but it was uncanny how most of her words were virtually identical to those spoken to detectives as a teenager. A script well-rehearsed.
Lanh put the paper down and reached for his own notes from the unproductive visit to Scarlett Reyes that morning. He scanned it briefly, shaking his head. She’d offered nothing, but hadn’t that been her game all along?
Stepping out of his circle, he opened a case file box, sifting through its contents until he found what he was looking for: Scarlett’s first taped interview. He’d already read the transcript, but it was always helpful to hear witnesses tell their stories in their own voice.
He played the recording, closing his eyes as he let the words wash over him.
‘I don’t know why you’re asking me this. I told you I can’t remember.’
‘You have no recollection at all of how you ended up back at the house?’
‘No. I just know that when I got there, I saw Gypsy at the gate, and then Dad came home.’
‘What time was this?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t have a watch on me.’
‘Okay, so first you saw your friend Gypsy, and then what did you do?’
‘I reckon we just went inside.’
‘You went inside the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then your father came home?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you were inside the house when you first saw your father – Leicester Reyes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, but the thing is, Scarlett, when we spoke to your dad, he said he found both you and Gypsy on the street outside your house.’
‘So?’
‘Well, were you inside or outside?’
‘I don’t remember. But if Dad says we were outside then we must have been – I guess we were still searching for Cecilia.’
‘But didn’t you lose contact with her up near the lookout to Koonya Ocean Beach? Why would you suspect she was near the house?’
The Girl Remains (Detective Corban) Page 10
