‘She might have found her own way back like I did.’
‘So you got home, you met Gypsy there, and then as far as you can recall, you stayed outside looking for your friend?’
‘That sounds right.’
‘Did you try getting help from anyone? Ask a neighbour for assistance? Anything like that?’
‘Um . . . Maybe . . .’
‘Scarlett, it’s important you get these details correct. Please try to remember exactly what you did.’
‘I think we just kept looking on our own until Dad got home.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘I told you, I wasn’t wearing a watch.’
‘Alright. So up until the time your dad came home, you had no contact with anyone else? It was just you and Gypsy looking for Cecilia.’
‘That’s right.’
Lanh stopped the tape, flipping back through his notebook. Hadn’t Gypsy said she’d found Scarlett sitting on the doorstep of Leicester’s home?
Yes. He found the detail he was after. Gypsy claimed to have found Scarlett at the house, and Scarlett claimed to have found Gypsy at the house. It could be little more than semantics, but he doubted it.
He frowned, considering the petulant child he’d just heard on the tape and the uncooperative woman he’d met that morning. What was Scarlett Reyes hiding?
Lanh stood up, packing away the tape and heading for the door. He enjoyed the thrill of untangling cases, and he would happily sit there all night and stew over his misgivings. But he was already in the bad books with Jay, and one more missed dinner could be the final straw for their relationship.
He grabbed his keys and security pass and headed for the elevator, where he stabbed the ‘down’ button enthusiastically. But as the lift arrived and he stepped inside, his energy suddenly evaporated.
Something else was bothering him.
Lanh stared at his reflection in the silver of the closing doors.
Either Gina Harper was lying, or Scarlett Reyes was lying. Probably both. Of that, he was sure. But if they both were lying . . .
The worry crystallised.
Then maybe it wasn’t just what happened that was being fabricated, but when it happened.
Lanh shivered, a rush of adrenalin sending his mind into overdrive. This entire time they’d been operating on the assumption that Cecilia had disappeared on the Tuesday night, in a small window around midnight. But what if that wasn’t accurate?
He hit the button for level 4 and pulled out his phone, writing a grovelling apology as he watched the escalator doors open at the carpark level and then close again.
Won’t make it. Held back again. Please forgive me. Love you xo
Lanh sent the text, dropping his phone in his jacket pocket just as the lift lurched upwards. He held his breath, straining his ears for the familiar ping of a message arriving. If he got a response immediately it would mean that Jay was furious, but likely to get over it. If he got the silent treatment . . .
Lanh pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t worry about it now; he’d made the right decision.
He stepped back out onto the fourth floor, walked down the corridor and stopped at a vending machine to select a large chocolate bar and a can of Coke. He took the supplies to his desk and grabbed the first case file box from the floor nearby.
The first task, he decided, ripping at the wrapping of the chocolate bar with his teeth, was to go back over all the main statements word by word and check for inconsistencies in the timeline.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The grass was damp, the wetness seeping into her canvas shoes, making her socks clammy and gross. What was with the inconsistent weather? Pippa yanked the straps of her backpack in tighter to her body as she continued along the narrow space between the road and the scrub. Yesterday had been warm and almost too sunny, but the evening had brought a sudden drop in temperature and heavy rain. Her foot squelched on the muddy ground. Yuck. Why was there no footpath?
She’d intended on hitchhiking her way to Blairgowrie that morning, the free map she’d picked up from an information stand telling her the main hub of the town was only a short drive from the caravan park in Rye, where she was staying. But after zero offers of assistance from the many passing cars, she’d given up, accepting that she’d just walk.
A honk sounded before she felt the icy splash against her legs. For fuck’s sake. She rolled up the bottom of her now sodden jeans and then glared at the speeding truck that was rattling away into the distance. Why did they always time their pass when there was a puddle?
She stomped on, happy to see a small strip of shops ahead.
‘Morning.’ A woman being shepherded by an excited pup struggled by.
Pippa smiled, then frowned, her nose twitching. A lump formed in her throat. Placing a hand on her stomach, she hesitated, waiting for the nausea to pass. It was infuriating how even the slightest hint of cigarette smoke could do that to her these days.
Thankfully, the scent of coffee soon overpowered everything else, and she found herself loitering outside a busy little cafe.
‘Is this the main shopping strip in Blairgowrie?’ she asked a man standing at the entrance.
‘In all its glory.’
From her position in the doorway, she tried to decipher the prices listed on the poster behind the counter. Saturday night’s wine and taxi fare home had pretty much blown her week’s budget – at least that cop and his friends had paid for all the beers.
‘In or out?’ the waiter barked.
‘Actually, I think I’m okay.’ She backed away.
Perhaps it was the lack of caffeine – or food – but a swell of disappointment hit her, as she stood surveying the modest community hub. It was busy enough, with locals and visitors buzzing about, but not at all what she’d been picturing.
Pippa flinched as another angry truck roared past. For a start, she hadn’t expected that a busy highway would run the length of the coast, making the area feel more suburban than coastal. But she also hadn’t anticipated how sanitised the town would be, the demographic clearly skewed towards wealthy middle-aged people. Do I really belong here? She felt her lower lip tremble, her fingers twitching. Alone. I’m completely alone.
‘Can I help with anything, darl?’ A woman appeared before her, and Pippa discovered that she’d wandered into a small fruit shop.
‘Just looking.’
She waited until the assistant was tending to another customer before plucking a pair of bananas from a shelf and tucking them inside her jacket. When she was far enough down the street, she peeled one and unenthusiastically gnawed at the tip of the fruit.
After finishing her uninspired breakfast, Pippa consulted her map. If she crossed the highway she’d get to the front beach, which could lead her either to the head of the peninsula or back to the Rye foreshore. But what good would that do?
An unease settled over her again. What the hell am I doing here, anyway? She shook her wrists as the tremors threatened to take hold once more. When the feeling passed, she turned from the highway and took a residential street, on which the wide yards of properties without fences sprawled to meet the kerb, making it unclear if she should be walking across lawns or on the road. She opted for the middle of the asphalt, taking a small delight in pretending she didn’t notice whenever a car appeared behind her, forcing their journey to be stalled for no reason whatsoever. Suckers.
It must have been at least a good half-hour of solid walking until she was away from the winding streets and on a bush trail, where signs promised access to Blairgowrie’s ocean beaches. Emerging from the cover of foliage, she grinned, taking in the ruthless cliffs and rocky landscape before her, the angry water smashing against anything in its path. This was more like it.
Inhaling slowly, she followed the sandy track to a steep set of wooden stairs and began the descent to the beach, grateful for the blast of wind and salty air across her face.
If she tried really hard, she could almost ima
gine that she wasn’t there alone.
‘We have four calls made to the home of Cecilia May on the day the teenager disappeared. Who made the calls? Why were they made?’ Emmett looked around the boardroom, before grabbing his espresso and taking a quick sip. ‘We have our key suspect, who swears he’s innocent, now without a living alibi. Can we put extra—’
‘Actually, that’s something I’ve been wondering.’ It was Calvin Briggs who interrupted, the seasoned detective stroking his chin as he held court. ‘How did the Reverend die? It seems somewhat convenient that the main alibi should cark it just weeks before the case gets reopened.’
‘That’s exactly what I said,’ Bianca grumbled. ‘But it was natural causes – a heart attack. Nothing in it.’
‘Too bad,’ Calvin muttered. ‘Do we have anything extra from forensics?’
‘Nothing new,’ Emmett answered. ‘But I spoke to Cecilia’s parents about the orthopaedic implant. Like us, they’re sadly confident the remains are hers.’
‘We need that forensic report,’ Calvin insisted. ‘Otherwise we don’t know what we’re dealing with – I’ll give them a call myself straight after this and try to hurry them along for you.’
‘Fine. In addition to these items, a warrant has been lodged to conduct electronic surveillance of Warren Turton,’ Emmett tried to hide the frustration from his voice.
‘No physical surveillance set up yet?’ Bianca asked.
‘Not yet. But if we believe that’s necessary, we can get a team outside his home within 24 hours.’
‘Is it worth going back to his original victim – seeing if they can shed some light on his behaviour?’
‘The student he assaulted?’ Emmett frowned. ‘Actually, that’s not the worst idea. Detective Nguyen, can you look into that? See if you can find a contact. I think the first name was Jessie.’
Lanh nodded, doing a poor job of concealing a yawn. He raised a hand. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to mention.’ He waited for another yawn to pass. ‘Despite everything that’s been done, there’s still absolutely no evidence that proves Cecilia disappeared on the night of the 22nd, like we’re all presuming she did.’
‘What?’ Emmett was irritated by his colleague’s obvious fatigue. Whatever he’d got up to last night could not be impacting the investigation. They had too much on.
‘Aside from the word of two unreliable teenagers, we have nothing. Isn’t it possible the timeline is incorrect?’
‘You’re suggesting that this whole story about a late-night walk has been fabricated?’ Emmett hesitated. It was possible . . . ‘But there’s Leicester Reyes – he backs the girls’ story up.’
‘All he says is that Cecilia wasn’t there when he returned from night shift on Wednesday morning. But there’s nothing to suggest he saw her on Tuesday.’
‘True . . . Actually, have we checked the sergeant’s alibi for that night?’
‘He was working from 7 pm until 4 am. Both his roster and sworn statements from colleagues attest to this.’
‘You know,’ Emmett rubbed his forehead, ‘if he was doing night shifts that week, it would have given the teens plenty of opportunity to get up to trouble. Goodness knows what they were doing – or who they were meeting.’
‘Exactly.’ Lanh opened a folder of notes. ‘He would have been sleeping during the daytime, presumably, and then have been out all night. He’s hardly an ideal witness.’
‘So what exactly are you suggesting?’ Calvin pressed. ‘That Cecilia actually disappeared earlier in the day?’
Lanh nodded. ‘That might explain the worrying calls that her parents missed that morning. We’re presuming it was Cecilia who rang, but maybe it was actually her friends, checking if she’d gone home? Also, I’ve been going through the logs of all the tips from the general public that were never followed up. There’s one that interests me – a sighting of Cecilia at a bus stop on Point Nepean Road. This person claims to have seen her on her own, barefoot, on the morning of Tuesday September 22.’
‘You think she ran away?’ Emmett reached for his laptop and flicked open a map, the image appearing on the main screen at the front of the room for his colleagues to see. ‘Heading in which direction?’
‘North. Towards Melbourne.’
‘Hang on, you’re turning this into a goose chase.’ Flynn cut in. ‘We have to stick to what we know: three separate witnesses have all given evidence that Cecilia disappeared after a late-night walk on Tuesday evening. And don’t forget, there’s also that witness sighting of Cecilia being driven in a white sedan on Wednesday morning.’
‘That’s true,’ Calvin nodded.
‘Alright, we’ll leave that for the moment.’ Emmett switched the map off. ‘But thanks for mentioning it, Detective Nguyen.’
Lanh scowled, but said nothing.
‘You’re planning a public appeal for information, I presume?’ Calvin asked.
‘Once the remains are confirmed. Not before. Anything else?’ Emmett looked at the eager faces of his team. The room remained silent.
‘Alright then. Ambers, I’ll get you to start on those calls made to Cecilia’s parents. Tardio, you can dig through what we know on Rev. Innisberg. Let’s see if we can’t get a better understanding of his relationship with Warren Turton.’ Emmett hesitated, looking at his notes. ‘I’ll keep focusing on our main suspect – I noticed there was a psychological report conducted after his initial arrest, so hopefully that can give us more on the reasons for his confession. And then I also want to go over everyone’s alibis for the night Cecilia disappeared, not just the girls and Mr Turton, but anyone who had anything to do with her in that past week: Leicester Reyes, Angus and Ebony May, the man at the general store where we know the girls bought lollies, any other friends or boyfriends or teachers that she might have been in touch with . . .’
Lanh cleared his throat.
‘And of course, Detective Nguyen, once you’re done following up leads on Mr Turton’s historical abuse victim, I’ll get you in to assist me.’ Emmett closed his laptop with a satisfying thud. ‘Happy Monday, everyone.’
The final bell sounded and Cindy turned to leave, grateful she’d managed to get Nicholas to school on time for once.
‘Hey, you know what you should do while you’re here?’ a male voice called. She swivelled to find Leon’s father approaching. ‘Go in and talk to the school principal, offer to volunteer your services for the athletics carnival that’s coming up. I heard they’re looking for helpers, and I bet you’d even get some of your photos published in the school newsletter.’
‘What?’
‘Emmett mentioned you’ve been trying to break into the business. So I thought it’d be a good way to keep yourself busy, build up your portfolio a bit. My wife was dabbling around with pottery for a while, and now she’s helping out with crafting activities at the after-school program once a week. It’s a win-win.’
‘Thanks, but I have no interest in working for free.’
‘Come on, love, there’s no need to be like that – I was only trying to be helpful.’ Leon’s father pulled out his mobile phone and shook it in her face. ‘But as I told your husband, you’re not gonna make cash selling pictures anymore. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve all got a camera these days.’
Cindy fought the urge to knock the stupid device from his grip. ‘Actually I have a job to get to right now. A paying one.’
After weaving through rows of parked cars, she took refuge in her little red Datsun, closing the door behind her with a vigorous slam. How on earth had she got caught in that stream of unsolicited advice? Was Emmett doubting her too? She scrolled angrily through the emails on her phone.
18/20 Mora Street, Oakleigh. She typed the address into her GPS.
With an unnecessary rev of the engine, she left the carpark, cutting off an oncoming vehicle as she veered onto the road. Piss off. She glared at the driver behind her, who was making a show of waggling a finger.
Avoiding the tolls, her pho
ne’s robotic female navigator directed her through the heart of Melbourne, along Spencer Street and immediately past the police centre where Emmett would be working. Would he be angry if he knew what she was up to? She stared at the glass building as she waited at an intersection. He’d been so happy to hear she’d been given a last-minute shift. And she was only following orders. He can’t blame me for doing my job.
On the other side of the city the traffic was light, and the journey to Oakleigh was easy, though drearily uninspiring. She slowed as she turned into Mora Street, noticing the beat-up blue car sitting opposite the address, a dark silhouette in the driver’s seat.
Waving, she pulled up along the kerb and waited for the woman she knew only as Stacey to emerge. ‘All good?’
The journalist was young, really young, and as she lowered her window Cindy found herself doing a ruthless appraisal of the woman’s outfit: ripped tights, short skirt, clumpy black boots, v-neck top with push-up bra . . . Is this how young professionals dress these days? She stopped herself. I’m turning into my mother.
‘I hope I haven’t kept you.’ She chose a deliberately upbeat tone. ‘Have you seen anyone about?’
‘Nah. But only rocked up here a short time ago. I’m thinking I’ll go ahead and do the sweet-talking, and if they’re good for it, I’ll signal for you to come over. Yeah?’
Cindy nodded, internally laughing at the young reporter, whose grasp of the English language seemed strangely at odds with her choice of career. And how exactly was she intending on signalling? A wink? A secret wave? Maybe a code word?
Slipping out of the car, she retrieved her bag of equipment from the boot, then returned to the driver’s seat, watching nervously as Stacey sauntered across the road. Craning forward, she could just make out the edge of what must be the front doorway, where the journalist was standing. Waiting.
A shift in Stacey’s body language suggested something was happening. Several energetic arm movements followed. Then, to Cindy’s surprise, she got the signal. ‘Oi! Come on over. They’re happy to chat.’
The Girl Remains (Detective Corban) Page 11
