The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  ‘Yes,’ Lanh didn’t skip a beat, the detective completely missing the relevance of this point. ‘And, remarkably, he refused to accept he’d been a victim of crime, kept insisting he and Warren had been in love. In fact, he actually asked me if I had contact details for Mr Turton, said he “wouldn’t mind” getting back in touch. Can you believe it?’

  From across the table, Bianca shook her head. Emmett rubbed his temples. Warren Turton’s prior offending had been against a male student from his class. How had they missed that? So why then had the former teacher gone on to target Cecilia May? What else were they missing?

  ‘Actually, victims of sexual assault sometimes do feel romantic connections to their offenders; it can be a way to process the attack, to give them a sense of control back,’ Calvin’s energetic voice radiated through the speaker. ‘Of course none of that takes away from the damage the trauma causes. Now, I wanted to raise something with you all, in relation to the surveillance on Mr Turton. We’ve got electronic tracking in place, and a telecommunications warrant pending, is that right?’

  ‘Correct,’ Emmett answered.

  ‘And I imagine you’ve considered physical surveillance?’

  ‘We have, but the issue there is both the location and the history of our target. Warren knows he’s being watched; he’s not an idiot. Every prior investigator has had him under physical surveillance and none have gleaned anything from it. I worry that having a visible police presence around him will only spook him further into isolation.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Bianca agreed. ‘There also hasn’t been any success at triggering him to act. All the usual methods have been tried, and he hasn’t responded to any of them. On top of that, his alibi, Robert Innisberg, is dead. Warren has no close friends or family we can lean on, and if he won’t lead us to the evidence, then the only option is getting him to talk. And I can’t see him volunteering for a chat anytime soon.’

  ‘I don’t disagree with you,’ Calvin said. ‘He’s not dumb enough to lead us to anything incriminating, and he won’t talk to the police. But he might still let slip to someone.’

  ‘An undercover,’ Emmett murmured, finally realising what the detective was getting at.

  ‘Exactly. It’s our last line of defence.’

  ‘And who would that be?’ Bryce’s heavy voice barked down the line. ‘If we use an external agent it will take weeks to get them ready. We don’t have the luxury of time. You have no idea how heavily the attorney general is breathing down my neck.’

  ‘So let’s use someone internal,’ Calvin said. ‘From my understanding, neither Ambers or Nguyen have met the target, is that right?’

  Emmett’s chest tightened. Were they really going to take this route?

  ‘Well, who’s he most likely to connect with?’ Bryce asked.

  ‘It’s your call, Detective Corban,’ Calvin said. ‘You’ve done more research on him than I have, and this is your investigation. Who do you think Warren Turton is more likely to confide in?’

  Emmett closed his eyes, picturing Lanh and his ridiculous coif, his tub of fairy floss and penchant for lollies. The young detective had an odd temperament that was both pompous and brash, endearing and irritating in equal measure. Then there was Flynn, the tall redhead so deadly serious, a career cop through and through. A lump formed in his throat. Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to put the success of his investigation into the hands of a man who had the dietary habits and overconfidence of a teenager?

  ‘Detective Nguyen.’ He heard the words escape his lips. ‘It will have to be Detective Lanh Nguyen.’

  It was getting late. Light faded through the panels of the stained-glass windows, as shadows stretched out across the hall. Daphne sat in her pew in the middle, alone. How long had she been there? She looked around; nothing other than the growing darkness to indicate the hour.

  In her lap, her right hand remained clenched, the fist gripping the scrunched papers so tightly she wondered whether her fingers might have locked in place.

  They walk among us. Her husband’s words rang in her head.

  It had started out as another tedious day of tidying and packing, sifting through trinkets and notes, books and photographs. As each possession was either discarded in black garbage bags or put safely away in boxes, a wave of grief had flooded her body, searingly painful and utterly immobilising.

  Surprisingly, it wasn’t the memories flittering back that had hurt the most – there’d been some comfort in those, glimpses back in time to when there was laughter, love and sometimes, yes, drama. No, she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes which seemed now eternally weepy, it was the unfamiliarity that had stung hardest: the unknown, unexpected discoveries she’d made within the depths of his belongings. Who was that person in the photograph? Why had he kept that collection of music tapes? Where was that souvenir pamphlet from? What was so important about that old necktie?

  It was those moments that had pitted in her stomach, growing and gnawing, wrestling with one another until she was left sapped, hopeless. Who was this man she’d loved?

  And then she’d found the letters.

  With her left hand, Daphne hugged her woollen shawl in tighter around her, the material doing little to protect from the shivering cold of loneliness.

  She’d almost missed them, tucked flat as they were inside an empty biscuit tin. What had caused her to open it up? She still didn’t know. It was as though instinct had guided her, made her flick open the container. The creepiness of the cut-out magazine letters had hit her at once.

  I know what u did.

  The first one had been short, perhaps even open to interpretation. But they’d got worse.

  You burnt her body.

  Confess or those around u will suffer.

  Final warning.

  The creak of a door opening. Daphne squeezed the fist even tighter as footsteps approached.

  ‘Still here?’ The Reverend’s wife slipped in. ‘We saw your car out the front and wondered what had happened. Can we get you something? You’re welcome to join us for dinner.’

  ‘Thank you, no, I’m fine.’ Daphne sat up stiffly. ‘I’m all packed and ready to go. Just taking a moment to say goodbye.’

  ‘Of course.’ The woman smiled, retreating. ‘Do call out if you need anything, though.’

  Alone again, Daphne shoved the ball of paper in a pocket and looked to the ceiling, the ornate beams of the old church watching over her. Who was this man she’d loved and lost?

  ‘Robert?’ She murmured his name, waiting for a sign. ‘Are you there, love? Can you hear me?’ She closed her eyes, waiting for the feeling of warmth to rush through her, the loving light she’d held on to ever since his parting breath.

  Nothing.

  ‘Darling?’ Her voice quivered, lips shaking. ‘Please?’

  The trembling got worse, the vibration building from her chest, rising through her throat, until eventually tears streamed down her cheeks. Uncontrollable sadness. And also anger.

  He was gone, leaving behind only shadows and darkness.

  Rising, Daphne walked through the pews, her slow steps taking her to the altar. There, she knelt before the crucifix, praying to the small statue of a Madonna and child flanked by imposing candlesticks. This had been her husband’s stage for so many years, the backdrop to every performance. She hesitated, heart aching. A performance. The word stuck out in her mind. Was it all an act?

  She closed her eyes, willing for peace to come. Why wouldn’t it come?

  Because you knew.

  The voice was stern, angry, coming from somewhere deep within her. And it was right. Of course she’d known.

  How else could she explain Robert’s sudden change in demeanour, his retreat from the world? Why had her once gregarious husband chosen to so viciously shun social gatherings, avoid evenings with friends, and indeed anything at all from which he might derive pleasure. Because he was punishing himself. Daphne straightened back up, ankles clicking. It was the
cancelled literary events that had been most telling. I’m just not interested in doing that anymore, he’d hissed.

  ‘Oh love.’ She stepped up onto the platform and moved towards the candlestick on the right, the gold-plated cast-iron smooth against her skin. She stroked it gently, remembering the day they’d got the order in, an update on the previous pieces.

  It would have been an accident, Daphne realised, as she reached to the statue and wiped dust from its base. There was no way Robert would have deliberately harmed that girl; something extraordinary had happened, something he couldn’t share with anyone. Not even her. She sighed, leaving the Madonna and child and instead stepping over to the metal crucifix, a modest 10 inches in length but such a powerful, striking piece. She lifted it up off its wall hook; solid, heavy.

  She smiled, hugging the metal ornament to her chest. This is right. This feels right.

  Humming softly, she carried it back through the rows of pews, repeating the tune of her favourite hymn, over and over.

  The crucifix sat on the passenger seat as she drove from St John’s Church, weaving her way through the dark streets, seeing only the odd light on in neighbouring homes. When she came to Melbourne Road, she slowed, considering the best way to access the back beaches. Blairgowrie. She flicked an indicator.

  At the Koonya lower carpark she pulled up, leaving the headlights on and still quietly humming as she walked around her car. She was wearing denim jeans, white runners, and a pink-and-white jumper. She could hear the detective’s words clearly, the way they’d sounded repeatedly on radio bulletins that afternoon, interrupting her attempts to peacefully tidy Robert’s study.

  What did you do, my love? Daphne opened the passenger door and lifted the crucifix from the seat. Why couldn’t you tell me?

  Leaving the car as it was, she followed the trail towards Diamond Bay, the exertion of carrying the ornament and the pace with which she navigated the sandy, deserted path keeping her warm.

  Where now. Where now, my love?

  Daphne hesitated at the fork. She could continue to Diamond Bay; it wasn’t all that much further. But no, the crash of the wild waters nearby urged her to hurry, calling her off the main track and towards the edge, the rocky shelf of limestone that formed Dogs Head.

  ‘Mercy.’ She murmured the word, retrieving the papers from her pocket and clutching them with the crucifix to her chest. The energy from the items vibrated through her body as she closed her eyes and took one last long breath in.

  Then she did it. She stepped off the edge. The last thought that entered her mind: I’m coming, my love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It hadn’t been a good sleep. Every creak, every noise, sending a panicked jolt through her body. Was someone there? Was that the lock being turned? Was that a car coming up the drive?

  It was only as dawn broke and the chorus of birds began their morning rituals that Pippa managed to settle back down. No one was coming. Everything was okay.

  She closed her eyes, hugging the tangled sheets in tighter to her body. I can’t believe I’ve done this. She wriggled down lower. What kind of person breaks into someone else’s house and sleeps in their bed?

  She rolled over.

  It hadn’t been intentional. She clung to that thought. It had been the fatigue, and the stress. And the disappointment.

  She’d waited hours outside Warren Turton’s home, wishing, hoping, for the awful reporters to leave her in peace. Instead, they’d camped there all day, accosting the man she could only catch the shortest glimpse of as he scurried by on his bike, screeching up the driveway and into his house.

  Her anger rose. What right did they have to rob her of her moment? For them, this was just a story, another headline before the next sordid tale came along. But for her, it was personal. Would she get the chance again?

  She sat up. Groggy. Disgusting.

  The room she chose was the smaller of the bedrooms, at the rear of the property and closer to the back door in case she’d needed to run. Her backpack was beside her, the two smelly changes of clothes she had scrunched in the bottom, a few toiletries on the top. She’d felt drawn to the pretty white weatherboard as she’d walked despondently along the gravel road, unsure of where she’d sleep the night. Her initial plan had been to crash on the back porch, positioning the two wicker chairs so she could cradle herself in a ball. But then she’d noticed the window ajar.

  Yawning, Pippa slipped from the sheets, stretching her arms out wide. It had been scary, really scary, how easily she’d rationalised her actions as she’d slid the window open and stepped into the house. This doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. The owners wouldn’t mind. If anything, they’d probably appreciate someone keeping an eye on their property.

  How absurd. She reached for her bag and pulled out the long-sleeved t-shirt. Urgh, she gave the armpits a sniff.

  Moving to the bathroom, she ran the shower. Bath towels were kept under the sink, along with a collection of half-used toiletries. So perhaps this wasn’t a holiday rental, so much as a holiday home? She grabbed a towel and stepped under the water, undecided whether that made it more or less likely that someone would arrive at any moment and catch her out. She exhaled slowly, the warm water soothing her body. How luxurious it felt to have her own private bathroom – a far cry from the shared facilities at the caravan park.

  The taps squeaked as she turned them off.

  Patting herself dry, she again surveyed her dirty clothes. Could she really stomach another day in the clammy materials? She bundled the items in her arms and tiptoed through the house. Surely there was a washing machine? Yes, she found a small top-loader tucked in a corner by the back door. A stash of powder was kept in the cupboard above it, as well as some sprays and other cleaning chemicals. But should she? She shrugged as she stared at the machine. At this point it hardly mattered.

  Pippa dropped the clothes in, quickly sprinkling some powder over the top and closing the lid. It was still early. No one was going to come.

  Besides, she thought as she entered the master bedroom and absentmindedly opened and closed cupboards, it was obvious the press weren’t leaving their perch on the hill anytime soon. There was no need to rush back to Warren’s house early.

  Flicking through the few items hanging on a rack, she perused mothballed jumpers and shirts. They were hideously ugly and far too big. But they were clean. She wiggled a gross tartan shirt from a hanger and slipped it on. Actually quite comfy. In the bedstand were some socks. Navy blue. Again, far too big.

  Pippa laughed, catching a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror. Not the best she’d looked. Also, not the worst.

  As she waited for her washing to be done, she inspected the kitchen pantry, pleased to find basic non-perishables on the shelves: tea and coffee, bags of pasta, tomato paste, a couple of tins of tuna (yuck), and some dry crackers and cans of soup. In the freezer were bags of chips, some weird-looking pastry things, and frozen vegetables. She considered her breakfast options. Crackers and tomato soup, she decided, taking the supplies from the pantry and plugging the microwave cord into the power socket.

  Now I just need a can opener . . . She sifted through the cutlery drawers, pushing forks and spoons aside, spatulas and ladles . . . Her heart froze as her hands landed on the ball of string.

  She closed her eyes, a pain in her chest. Her parents had always kept a ball of string in their cupboards, perfect for tying meat, bundles of herbs . . . wrists . . .

  She slammed the drawer shut and ran the sink tap, splashing her face with icy water until the tremors passed.

  With her soup heated, she took the bowl and cradled it in her lap, stretching out on one of the cream leather recliners, listening to the cackle of birds outside and the gentle hum of the washing machine working hard near the back door.

  She slurped a little. Ow. Still hot. Then she nibbled on a cracker – salty but otherwise tasteless, rather like cardboard.

  What did you see when you got home, Pippa? You found
the door unlocked; what next?

  She shook her head, pushing the incompetent policeman’s words away, ignoring the sensation of stale smoke tingling on her tastebuds and the weird, sickeningly sweet smell that had grown stronger with each step forward.

  And when you rounded the hallway, what did you find?

  She took a larger gulp of soup, appreciating the pain of it burning the inside of her mouth.

  ‘I found them dead.’ She whispered the words out loud, noticing the plop of a tear splashing into her bowl. ‘I walked in. And they were dead.’

  ‘Come on, mate, it has to be somewhere.’ Emmett hated hearing his voice like that: frazzled, nagging. ‘Did you check the laundry hamper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Under your bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about in the bathroom?’

  Silence. Small footsteps. A door opening and banging shut.

  ‘Got it.’

  Emmett shook his head.

  What had the mornings been like, he tried to remember, before Nicholas? When it was just him and Cindy? Long showers? Calmly choosing which shirt to wear? Maybe even a discussion about the news of the day over a leisurely breakfast?

  ‘Dad!’ The high-pitched voice squealed down the stairs.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I can’t find my running top.’

  Seriously? Emmett slammed his mug down on the bench and trudged back up to his son’s room. How hard could it be?

  After tearing Nicholas’s room apart (and discovering that the running top was in fact downstairs on the couch), he finally got his little boy into the car.

  ‘Excited?’ He clipped him into the backseat.

  Nicholas nodded, saliva dribbling down his chin. ‘I want to get a ribbon in every colour. Red, green, blue and white.’

  ‘White?’ Emmett frowned. ‘What place is that for? Fourth?’

  ‘That’s the one you get for having a go, Dad. The teacher said everyone gets that one.’