The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

‘No.’ Emmett was surprised to notice a rush of guilt. Perhaps he was being too hard on Angus May. Cecilia’s parents had trusted the police for years with no result. Maybe it was fair enough they’d gone to the press.

  ‘So we’ve got a couple of spare desks for you, nothing fancy I’m afraid.’ Greg motioned for the detectives to follow him through a secure door that led to an open plan workspace. ‘And of course you have access to our meeting rooms whenever you want them.’

  ‘Perfect, thank you.’

  ‘Oh.’ The sergeant stopped abruptly, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. ‘You have a guest waiting to see you. He’s in the back room.’

  Emmett flicked a glance at Bianca, his partner hiding any sense of intrigue behind her poker face.

  After dumping their things at two desks near the far wall, they proceeded to the rear of the building, where several uniformed officers were milling about.

  Emmett recognised the man’s bulky silhouette instantly. ‘Leicester Reyes.’ He greeted him warmly before introducing him to Bianca. ‘This is Scarlett’s father, a former sergeant at this station and a bit of a rock star around here from the looks of it.’

  The uniformed officers took the hint and scattered.

  Leicester smiled. ‘Sorry to spring up on you like this. Brabham mentioned you’d be stopping by, and I noticed you were trying to get in touch with me yesterday.’

  ‘We were.’ Bianca retrieved her notepad from inside her jacket and flipped it open, making no attempt at small talk. ‘We were wanting to know if you have anything more you can add on the four calls that were made from your property on the morning of the 22nd? We know you’ve been questioned about this previously, but it could be important.’

  Confusion crossed the former sergeant’s face. Followed quickly by a flash of disappointment. ‘I have no idea who made the calls – one of the girls, presumably. They were always using the landline to prank friends and whatnot. But listen, we’ve covered all that before.’ Leicester slouched back in the chair. ‘I thought you might have some new information that you needed my help with.’

  Emmett bristled, remembering Angus May’s similar expressions when he’d gone to visit Cecilia’s parents. We thought you might have had a different kind of breakthrough with the case – got a new lead on who was responsible.

  ‘While you’re here,’ he scraped his chair in loudly, ‘tell us more about Warren Turton. What sort of company does he keep?’

  ‘Company?’ Leicester cracked his knuckles. ‘That bastard doesn’t socialise with anyone – too busy entertaining the sick fantasies in his head, no doubt.’

  ‘He’s a complete loner?’

  ‘He is the very definition of the word.’

  ‘No friends, professional acquaintances, family members?’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen. And I’ve been watching him for years.’

  ‘But he used to have some sort of friendship with the Reverend, Robert Innisberg, presumably?’ Bianca prompted.

  The former sergeant shrugged. ‘I guess so, but that whole alibi really caught me by surprise – caught all of us by surprise. Whatever connection those two had, they kept it under wraps.’

  ‘What does Mr Turton’s day-to-day look like?’ Emmett tried again. ‘Does he work normal hours, exercise, have a shopping routine, anything like that?’

  ‘He’s usually out during the daytime – he works for one of those gas and electricity companies, checking meters and whatnot. But then he’ll be ’round most evenings and weekends. I see him go for bike rides and walks a lot. But never with anyone else; he’s always alone.’

  ‘And no one ever visits?’

  ‘No one aside from the police, or the graffiti artists,’ Leicester chuckled, but a tremor in his voice suggested he wasn’t as relaxed as he seemed.

  ‘Alright, well, we appreciate you stopping by.’ Emmett stood up. ‘As always, don’t hesitate to get in touch if you think of anything else.’

  The ex-sergeant nodded and then strolled out of the meeting room, closing the door behind him.

  Bianca raised her eyebrows. ‘That was like getting a cabin inspection at school camp. And I think we failed.’

  ‘He wasn’t here to answer our questions. He was letting us know he’s watching our investigation; keeping us on our toes.’

  ‘I suppose you can’t blame him for wanting answers. Between the guilt over Cecilia and the estrangement from Scarlett, it seems he’s paid a high price through all this.’

  ‘Yes.’ Emmett darted a look through the window to the open plan workspace, where Leicester was apparently regaling the young officers with stories about his time there, arms waving wildly. ‘And behind all the bravado, I suspect he’s just a lonely old father who wants his daughter back.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A trio of kookaburras cackled above her and Pippa stopped, staring at the powerlines where the bizarre birds were stationed. They really are laughing. She stayed a while, watching their throats pulsating as they warbled, long beaks stretched to the sky.

  What a weird place. She continued on, the journey along Melbourne Road interrupted by occasional checks of her map, which had been folded so many times it was near unreadable.

  Beach Avenue, Foam Avenue, Spray Point Road . . . She crossed each intersection. Why were coastal towns so unimaginative with their street names? Koonya Avenue. Adrenalin pulsed through her. This was it.

  Turning left, she slowed her pace, listening to the crunch of gravel and leaves under her feet. How will I know when I find it? She considered each house along the dirt road.

  She walked a while, coming across absolutely no one.

  Stopping, she dropped her backpack to the ground and rolled her shoulders. It was probably a mistake to have checked out of the caravan park that morning, but she was hopeful of saving some money by crashing at Tobias’s again. Or I could probably just camp out somewhere here . . . Pippa slowly turned a circle on the spot, eyeing the many lonely houses, the outdoor furniture packed under cloth on their porches, blinds down and gates firmly closed. Most of these would be holiday rentals, she realised, arching her back and letting out a big yawn. She grabbed her pack and trudged on.

  Up ahead, the street rose to a crest, the back beach presumably hidden somewhere beyond the other side. She walked towards it, scanning every house, each window. Finally. A piercing shriek signalled the first sign of human life.

  ‘Hey, guys.’ She walked over to a pair of boys on bikes. Young. Ten? Maybe eleven years old? ‘Do you know where a man named Warren Turton lives?’

  The boys giggled, considering each other first before answering.

  ‘The pedo lives up there.’ The kid with glasses pointed up the hill, receiving a prompt whack on the head from his mate for doing so.

  ‘You’re not allowed to call him that, Mum said.’

  ‘That’s what Dad calls him.’

  ‘Does not.’

  ‘Does so—’

  ‘Which house, exactly?’ Pippa craned her neck, able to see only greenery from the shrubs at each side of the road.

  The boys gave her an odd look, before laughing nervously and taking off, the bikes skidding as they navigated the dirt, twigs and grass. Dimwits. She followed their vague directions up the hill. Oh. She stopped, reaching the peak and staring into the open yard of the property on the left. Bright graffitied letters glared back at her: Pedo Scum. Why wouldn’t he have washed that off?

  Hesitating, she stood in the driveway. What exactly would she say? She forced herself forward before the doubt took hold.

  ‘Hello?’ She banged on what appeared to be the only door, set to the side of the property and hidden from street view.

  Nothing.

  She waited, bouncing nervously on the spot.

  ‘Anyone home?’

  Pippa walked around the property, finding an unimpressive garden at the rear. She stared at the rectangle of grass, its far side dirtied by soil that looked to have been dug up from the stretch of unsu
ccessful plant beds along the fence. An old-fashioned clothesline stood prominently in the middle, the type she’d seen in photos, that kids could swing from as it rotated.

  A pair of socks and a white t-shirt hung from a shared peg – about the only suggestion that anyone still lived there.

  Her heart sank. Maybe Tobias was wrong about Warren Turton being here?

  She walked back around, passing a brown letterbox as she made her way to the street. Her fingers twitched. Should she?

  It opened with a clunk, the steel top lifting and folding heavily back on its hinges. Pippa peered in, a quick glance at the top envelope all she needed.

  What now then?

  On the other side of the street, immediately opposite the graffitied house, a vacant block of land was home to several large trees. Pippa trotted over, spying a perfect trunk on which to sit and wait, its base large enough to stretch out on, with plenty of foliage to keep her hidden.

  She scrambled over, a swell of emotion taking hold.

  This was it. She jostled her bag from her back and hugged it to her chest. After all the years, the planning, the imagining, she was about to come face-to-face with . . .

  What the heck?

  Pippa sat up stiffly, glaring at the white four-wheel drive which had parked directly across the empty lot, blocking her view of Warren’s place entirely.

  ‘Is the link truck coming?’

  ‘Yep, he’s on the way.’

  ‘We have time for a door-knock?’

  ‘First cross isn’t ’til midday.’

  The voices were unnaturally loud. Pippa pressed herself further back against the tree. Who are these people?

  She listened. Doors being slammed. The squeak of gravel under tyres signalling another car. More people.

  ‘What did you think of the presser?’

  ‘Feel sorry for the kid’s parents. Not sure about that cop though.’

  ‘You think they’ve dropped the ball?’

  ‘Must have.’

  Through the greenery surrounding her, Pippa spied a man lugging oversized recording equipment. Shit. Her stomach dropped. TV crews.

  She swallowed a lump in her throat and hugged her backpack in tighter.

  So close. She’d been so close to finally facing him. She closed her eyes and willed the reporters to go away.

  Hopefully they’d leave once they realised the monster was not at home.

  The soothing sounds of classical music danced in from the waiting area as Gina opened the door to her consulting room and pressed the internal intercom. ‘You can send my next patient in.’

  She hummed the tune in her head as she returned to her desk. What was that sonata?

  Her new practice was housed within a private medical suite on Toorak Road, shared with a plastic surgeon and celebrity lifestyle consultant. It was a far cry from the public hospital she’d started out in, where her time had been spent staring at unmentionables and playing, What’s that rash? Now, her days involved injecting chemical fillers and freezers into increasingly unmoving faces, her steady stream of regular clients carefully scheduled around boozy drug company sponsored events.

  Picking up the handheld magnifying mirror, she smiled at her reflection, prodding at her cheeks. Could she use a touch of lift herself? It couldn’t hurt. Gina turned her face side-to-side. Maybe a jab around the eyes too.

  She was well aware that she’d been blessed with great genes, her own skin having remained plump and flawless for most of her life, and she’d never suffered the acne breakouts or other bumps and lumps that seemed to mark the usual passage into adulthood. But she couldn’t let her guard down, not now that she was on the wrong side of thirty-five. It’s all in the prevention. How many times had she uttered those words to clients?

  The rustle of clothes moving down the passageway signalled the arrival of her next patient, and Gina flicked over to her schedule, noting this was a newbie: Mrs Stevenson, forty-eight years old.

  She sighed, feeling a flicker of annoyance at the receptionist, Richie. How often had she told him not to schedule new clients right before lunch? Hopefully she could keep this appointment tight.

  ‘Hello!’ She stood up, then froze, a sudden hiss of air escaping her lips. Her throat tightened; her skin grew cold.

  ‘You didn’t answer my calls.’ The woman burst in, expression fierce. ‘Had to make me traipse all the way over here to do this, didn’t you?’

  Twenty years was a long time, and the person before her now was not the friend she remembered. But the green eyes and freckled nose were unmistakeable, the attempts to lighten the hair not enough to hide the redness of the strands.

  Gina swallowed a lump in her throat, her shock quickly turning to anger.

  ‘Mrs Stevenson?’

  ‘Well if I’d given you my real name you’d hardly have seen me, would you?’ Scarlett sneered.

  No. Gina shook her head, she would not have.

  ‘Anyway, you can talk. Doctor Giiina Harper. Gypsy too bogan a name for you now, hey?’

  ‘What exactly do you want?’ Gina gestured to the door, which was still wide open.

  Scarlett bumped it with a hip, sending it crashing closed. ‘Cops came ’round the other day.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Said you’d been talking.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Gina sat back down in her chair, making a show of rolling her eyes.

  ‘Well?’ Scarlett glared. ‘Have you?’

  ‘They asked me to come in to the station. So I did.’

  ‘You told them there was tension between me and Cecilia.’

  ‘There was.’

  ‘You’ve got no right to go blabbing.’

  ‘What on earth do you think I’d say?’ Gina picked up a paperweight from her desk, cradling the smooth glass in her palms.

  ‘You’d better not have mentioned the pills, or the party.’

  ‘Or Dean?’ Gina couldn’t keep the edge from her voice.

  Scarlett gasped. ‘What she accused you of was worse,’ she muttered, almost incoherent.

  ‘Oh, grow up,’ Gina scoffed. ‘It’s been twenty years. Do you think the police would really even care about all that now?’

  ‘So you did mention it?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. What would be the benefit in me bringing all that up?’

  ‘If I get dragged into anything, I’m taking you down with me.’ Scarlett’s teeth were clenched. Yellow. In need of a good whitening treatment.

  ‘I have no intention of getting either of us any more involved than we already are.’ Gina gestured to her wall of certificates: a mix of international qualifications and awards. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I have a lot to lose.’

  Her words seemed to confuse the woman standing before her, who apparently couldn’t decide if she was comforted by the comment, or jealous.

  ‘Yeah, well, easy for some,’ Scarlett eventually snapped, slouching into the consulting chair opposite. ‘Some of us didn’t get sent off to a fancy boarding school.’

  ‘It was a mixed blessing.’ Gina noticed a surge of sadness. She pushed the emotion away. ‘Anyway,’ she put the paperweight back and squeezed her palms between her thighs, ‘it looks like that nutter up on the hill will get arrested again, so I’m sure it will all be over soon enough.’

  ‘It’d better be,’ Scarlett muttered.

  ‘It might offer some closure for her parents too,’ she added, but her words sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

  A burst of hurried footsteps passed by the door. Gina was relieved to see Scarlett rise from her chair.

  ‘So, should I be expecting any more fake patients in the future? Or are we done here?’

  Scarlett sneered. ‘As long as you can keep your mouth shut.’

  Gina heard herself exhale dramatically as she stood up, moving to the door to guide her unwanted guest out. If only Scarlett knew. She shook her head, closing the door firmly and snibbing the lock.

  The secrets between them ran so
much deeper.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Do you think I should have only the silver ones? Or a mix of different colours?’ Cecilia held up the sparkly butterfly clips, turning her head side-to-side as she considered her options.

  Scarlett exchanged an eye roll with Gypsy. Why did she care so much?

  ‘I dunno, just hurry up and pick, I want to get going!’

  ‘I know, but we don’t want to be the first ones there. And it’s good to be fashionably late, remember? Besides, if we take a bit longer, maybe Gypsy will feel well enough to go?’ She looked hopefully over to her friend, who sat huddled under a blanket, a box of tissues by her side.

  ‘No,’ Gypsy groaned. ‘I’m disgusting! I can’t be out in public with this gross cold, and I don’t want to spoil the night.’

  ‘Alright then, sad sack,’ Cecilia teased. ‘At least help me clip these in. I want one butterfly for every plait.’

  Scarlett watched the nauseating fuss over the carefully braided blonde hair. Why did everything always have to be so perfect? Why couldn’t Cecilia just relax and have fun?

  Her own hair was far from neat, but she’d managed to straighten most of the curls, a difficult process that involved resting her head on a beach towel on the floor, chin tucked into her chest like she was going to somersault, and then blindly running the iron over whatever strands she could find.

  Her mum hated when she did that, but her dad never cared. He just laughed and warned her not to burn the carpet. That was the thing about coming to Blairgowrie: freedom.

  ‘Okay, are you done?’ She glared to where Cecilia was crouched on the ground, Gypsy leaning over her, clipping the stupid sparkly butterflies in.

  ‘Almost!’ Cecilia flipped her head back, beaming. ‘Do you want to use that glitter gel on our eyes?’

  ‘I suppose we could.’ Scarlett collected the supplies from the bathroom.

  They’d each bought a tub of the gel from the pharmacy in Sorrento. They were going to save it for the next night, when they had their big adventure planned, but there was plenty to spare.

  ‘You can use mine, too, if you want,’ Gypsy offered. ‘I don’t even know if I’ll end up wearing it. I think glitter looks a bit childish on me.’