The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  Gina sighed, moving her right hand to partially cover the image of the white skull that served as the smaller, inset picture on the next page. Surely she couldn’t be the only one who found the publication of that photo utterly distasteful? She swirled saliva in her mouth, trying to rid herself of the stale, slightly bitter taste that had set in.

  It was the memory of that bedroom that had done it, she realised, looking around the waiting room for a water fountain. Nothing. She swished her mouth again. It was a place she refused to allow herself to return to, even in spirit, but she could remember every detail of that room, if she wanted to . . . the pine bedhead, the large painted kookaburra that hung in a frame on the far wall, the white shelves filled with CDs and videos, the flimsy wooden door . . .

  ‘Gypsy?’ Cecilia’s voice was loud, painful, pleading. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  The sounds from the hallway suggested her friend was having trouble walking straight, bumping into the side table, the edge of the couch, a wall . . .

  ‘Can you help? Please?’

  Finally, there came the scraping sound of the handle being turned. The thump of the door swinging open. Raspy breaths. Footsteps.

  No. Don’t do it. Don’t come in.

  Cecilia had been alone, weepy and drunk – and drugged, definitely drugged. But she wasn’t intoxicated enough not to see what she saw.

  ‘I want to phone Mum. I want to go home. I didn’t want to—’ She’d stopped, standing in the doorway. The look on her face sheer horror.

  ‘Excuse me? Are you okay?’

  Gina flinched at the touch of the fingertips on her back, spiky nails that were probably acrylics. She sat up. How long had she been doubled-over for? She had no idea, but the taste in her mouth suggested she was close to vomiting.

  ‘It’s just morning sickness.’ She patted her stomach, trying not to make eye contact with the receptionist who was standing over her, looking concerned.

  ‘Well the doctor can see you now, if you’re okay to head through.’

  It felt as though the entire waiting room cohort watched as she shuffled from her chair to the consulting room, and Gina found herself overtly rubbing her belly again, still nowhere close to showing.

  At least the appointment was a distraction from the news of Cecilia, she decided, finding the room and smiling at the doctor she’d come to know far too well over the years.

  Gina sat in the chair and breathed out, readying herself for the results of her latest test, but really only needing one question answered: Will this be the baby I finally keep?

  The sudden, mass exodus of media was a welcome surprise, and Pippa stood up warily, checking the length of the street to make sure she was truly alone.

  ‘How weird,’ she murmured, stomping her feet, which were tingling from the numbness of having been kept in the one position for so many hours.

  They were gone. Something significant had obviously happened to steal their attention away. Now was her chance.

  With the press having taken over her spot in the vacant lot across from Warren’s house, Pippa had been forced to stay perched at the base of the hill; sitting on a low, wooden fence without direct line of sight to the graffitied property. She’d had to rely on the movements of the reporters for any sense of activity, and, from their lack of excitement, it appeared that Warren had stayed firmly ensconced indoors.

  She began a cautious approach up the crest, feeling entirely unprepared, despite the hours, weeks – years, even – that she’d spent practising, rehearsing this moment.

  Rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans, she experienced a wave of self-consciousness, painfully aware of the oversized tartan shirt she was drowning in; how absurd she must look. What will he think of me? The soles of her feet squeaked as she crunched along the gravel.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun’s position in the sky sent dark shadows across the street. Even so, she spotted the slim figure immediately.

  No.

  She watched him dart out just as she was nearing his driveway.

  In a baseball cap and sunglasses, the man kept his gaze lowered as he hurried left, down the opposite side of the hill. Had he seen her? Pippa increased her pace. There was no telling how long the media would stay away from the house; this could be her last opportunity.

  The man walked briskly, both hands buried inside the navy rain jacket he’d thrown over his clothes.

  Where are you going?

  Her breath caught as she moved to an uncomfortable almost-jog, following him to the end of Koonya Avenue, then taking a sharp right.

  It began drizzling, the fine mist softening the crunch of leaves under her feet, the dampness seeming to heighten the scent of tea-tree, which swirled around them as they made their way through the thinning trails of national park, deeper into the shrubbery and ever closer to the roar of the ocean.

  Warren walked without hesitation, shoulders lifted; his feet keeping a regular, insistent beat, no matter the terrain. Pippa, on the other hand, had started slipping and sliding, the soles of her cheap canvas shoes no match for the increasingly rocky paths.

  They came to a horseshoe bend, the figure in front of her stopping abruptly at its apex, peering at something below. Pippa froze; nowhere to hide. If he turned around now, they’d come face-to-face.

  But Warren was distracted, crouched down and leaning over the lip of the ledge.

  What the hell was he doing?

  She took a hesitant step backwards, and another. A couple more and she’d be out of sight.

  One, two . . .

  Warren bobbed back up, jerky and stiff, dusting off his hands in front of him and shoving them back in his pockets.

  Then he turned.

  The press was gathered outside the Sorrento station, cameras zooming in to the broad-shouldered man walking towards them. Emmett watched from his office – grateful that at least one of the commercial news channels had decided to take the feed live.

  ‘Good evening. Thanks for coming at such short notice.’ Greg Brabham smiled, doing what appeared to be a brief scan of faces, before launching into the prepared spiel. ‘We wanted to provide a quick update on the investigation into the death and disappearance of Cecilia May. As you’ll be aware, we are working together with the state’s Cold Case and Homicide Units to ensure a comprehensive response to what can only be described as an extremely distressing and disturbing case. We are pleased to let you know today that there has been some significant progress made over the past twenty-four hours.’

  Several audible murmurs could be heard off mic. Emmett grinned, waving at Bianca who was wandering past with a stack of papers. ‘Come in, this is getting good.’

  ‘Thanks to numerous calls in to our public hotline, we have identified a person of interest. This person is currently assisting detectives with inquiries at the West Melbourne police headquarters. Due to operational reasons, I can’t go into much detail on the nature of this man’s involvement, other than to say he has been brought in for questioning from interstate and he has been cooperating with police. Again, we’d like to thank the community for the huge response to the callout for information, and encourage anyone with further information to make sure they do still come forward.’

  Bianca smirked, grabbing the remote from beside Emmett and turning the volume down. ‘That was actually quite convincing.’

  ‘He did a good job, didn’t he?’

  ‘I can’t believe he was happy to just stand there and lie like that.’

  Emmett shrugged. ‘I called in the favour this morning – told him we needed the media to leave Warren alone. A pretend new suspect seemed the only way to do that.’

  ‘And Cecilia’s parents?’

  ‘I’ve worded them up. I didn’t reveal too much about the plan, but they know not to get their hopes up about this new lead. And they also know not to speak to the media.’

  ‘Good.’ Bianca shifted awkwardly on the spot.

  ‘What?’ Emmett sighed.

  ‘You do
know this isn’t exactly textbook policing though? Did you warn Briggs, or the superintendent?’

  ‘Nope, but I’m about to head over to the glass office of doom right now. Thought I’d save him the hassle of sending the poor secretary after me.’

  Bianca’s grin returned, brunette waves shaking as she muttered, ‘When did you get so cocky?’

  Emmett stood up and comically sashayed past her. ‘Hanging out with you, I guess.’ The swagger disappeared as he headed down the corridor, his confidence replaced by a mix of sturdy resolution, and panic.

  Bryce was on the phone as he approached, but hung up the moment he saw him. Not a good sign.

  ‘What kind of stunt was that?’ he bellowed, gesturing to his TV and causing the few other detectives in the hallway to turn. Emmett took the liberty of closing the door behind him.

  ‘I’ve got a good mind to call that sergeant in; arrogant bastard,’ Bryce continued his rant. ‘Just what does he think he’s playing at, calling a press conference for a case he’s not even involved in?’

  ‘It was me.’ Emmett forced his voice to remain level. ‘I organised it.’

  His boss’s cheeks reddened. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The media were camping out at Warren Turton’s residence, causing him to bunker down. We have an undercover operation starting tomorrow and we needed him to freely come and go from his home. This distraction should be enough to keep the press chasing their tails for a while, and give our real suspect space to breathe.’

  The superintendent frowned, an odd expression crossing his face. What is that look? Resentment? Anger?

  Emmett licked his lips. ‘There’s the added benefit that with the resulting news coverage from this morning’s event, our target might even be more inclined to open up to Nguyen.’

  ‘So, you’ve gone and got a local officer to deliberately make false statements to members of the press?’

  ‘We leak things to the media all the time, how is this any different? There’s no reason any of them need to know this was a stunt – at some point the interrogation with our imaginary suspect will simply hit a dead end. At that point, we’ll let them know the lead was a dud.’

  ‘And presumably by then we’ve cornered Mr Turton, and everything’s hunky dory?’

  ‘That would be the optimum outcome.’ The collar of Emmett’s shirt cut into his neck. Why is it so hot in this stupid office?

  Bryce’s chest heaved, his eyes widening. Emmett braced himself for the explosion to come. But the sound that escaped his boss wasn’t what he expected. Was that . . . was he . . . laughing?

  ‘That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week,’ Bryce snorted, shaking his head as an unfamiliar, raucous laughter bounced off the walls of the glass office. ‘Good one.’

  The superintendent patted his stomach, body still shaking as he tried to regain some control.

  ‘You’re okay with it?’ Emmett sat up straighter, still not entirely sure what was happening.

  Bryce reached forward and noisily slurped at his glass of water. ‘It’s about time you showed a bit of gumption.’ He almost smiled, before his expression returned to the usual, hardened glare. ‘But I didn’t know anything about this – we never had this conversation – you understand?’

  ‘Of course, yeah, sure.’

  ‘Good.’ Bryce nodded, picking up some papers from his desk. ‘Now get out.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In the solitude of the office, Lanh sat huddled over his notes, papers lined up beside each other, a timeline scribbled on the whiteboard behind him. Preparations for the undercover operation had taken all day, finishing with a humiliating bike lesson from Emmett. He’d had absolutely no time to follow his own leads, and with his assignment in Blairgowrie starting the next morning, he knew this could be his last quiet moment for a while.

  He pulled out a map, placing a pin at the bus stop where Cecilia was seen on the Tuesday morning, at about 8 am. Barefoot and distressed, according to the witness statement. Were they really to believe the incident insignificant when, less than twenty-four hours later, she’d been reported missing? Lanh ground his teeth. Calvin Briggs and Flynn Ambers might have been quick to blow him off, but something about the sighting was wildly disturbing. He was sure he could make Emmett come around, if he could just get enough proof that something in the survivors’ timeline was off.

  He scanned over his notes, finding the detail of the next sighting made on the Wednesday morning. According to this second witness, Cecilia was seen in the front passenger seat of a white sedan being driven by a Caucasian male. Lanh took out another pin and found the exact location on Melbourne Road. The witness had estimated seeing this activity at around 8.15 am.

  He traced a finger between the two points.

  The two roads were the major thoroughfares on either side of the peninsula, but getting between them by car took just a matter of minutes. If the sightings had been made on the same day, they’d have made sense – someone picking the teenager up from the bus stop and driving her across to the other side of the peninsula. But why the lag of twenty-four hours?

  Lanh turned to the whiteboard behind him, where he’d again jotted down the times of the calls made to Cecilia’s family home on the Tuesday morning: 6.02, 6.03, 6.06 and 6.10.

  He closed his eyes, trying to create a scenario where all the pieces fitted together.

  On the Tuesday morning, Cecilia phones her parents at about 6 am because she’s worried about something. No one answers. She then decides to make her own way home, leaving the Reyes property and heading to the closest bus stop, which is on the other side of the peninsula, on Point Nepean Road.

  Lanh moved his finger from Koonya Avenue to the bus stop. It was a walking distance of perhaps twenty minutes, maybe thirty if she was dawdling. He tilted his head, staring at the bus stop pin. Why was she barefoot? If she’d phoned home and then decided to leave, surely she would have put shoes on?

  Unless she was that scared she just ran out . . .

  He pictured the terrified girl at the bus stop, sometime now close to 7 am. When would the next bus have come past? Lanh twisted to his laptop at his side, and looked up the transport schedule. In the present timetable, buses ran that route every ninety minutes between 11 pm and 9 am, and every half-hour the rest of the time. He frowned. If anything, the schedule would have been less frequent back in 1998, so it wasn’t impossible that Cecilia had arrived at the bus stop, only to find she had a long wait.

  That explains why, at 8 am, the first witness drove past and saw her still standing there.

  But then what?

  Lanh looked to the next pin, where Cecilia was seen in a white sedan.

  What happened in that missing twenty-four hours?

  Agitation was building in his chest, his efforts getting him no closer to the truth. He reached to his notes, finding the details of the two witnesses, both locals of Blairgowrie. I need to talk to them. The decision was immediate, but perfectly reasonable. He would be based in the town for the next few days anyway. He’d find time to duck away and get a better understanding of their sightings first-hand.

  Lanh nodded to himself, typing their contact details into his phone and taking a quick, despondent look at his messages to make sure he definitely hadn’t received any new texts since he last opened them.

  Perhaps it really was over between him and Jay? He scrambled to his feet, shuffling his papers into one large stack and placing the whole thing on his desk.

  He grabbed his keys and wallet.

  Time to go home and pack.

  The evening sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, painting the sky a glorious pink and orange. Leicester smiled, stopping where he was on the coastal trail and breathing in slowly. What a perfect sunset.

  He’d woken happy, pleased to discover that the crowd of reporters outside Warren Turton’s place had only continued to grow, their intrusive presence serving to keep the spotlight on the prick. ‘Good job you lot,’ he’d murmured a
s he’d wandered past on his morning walk, collecting a coffee and paper from the local store.

  Then he’d taken the tinnie out, making the most of the clear conditions for several blissful hours of solitude. The fish hadn’t been overly active, but the odd nibble here and there had kept him occupied.

  In the afternoon, he’d cooked up his modest winnings on the barbie and had fallen asleep on the couch, waking to the news of a decoy suspect – the message from his mate Greg coming through just minutes before the press conference was beamed live on TV. How funny. Leicester had imagined Warren sitting in his poky little house, positioned awkwardly on that ugly orange couch in the front room, watching the event with a misplaced sense of relief. Fool.

  And with the satisfying knowledge that the bastard would soon once again be behind bars, where he should be, Leicester had ventured out for an evening stroll, the initial drizzle of the late afternoon clearing to a chilly but peaceful evening.

  ‘Nice evening for it,’ he smiled at a dog walker.

  Technically, you weren’t supposed to have pets so close to the back beaches, the area all identified as national park, but Leicester didn’t blame owners who fudged the rules a little. Who wouldn’t want to take their evening constitutional along the dunes? The scenery on this side of the peninsula was so much more dramatic than at the front beaches, where you were lucky to get more than a metre of sand to walk on – just the flat, still water to stare into.

  At the steep wooden stairs, he toyed with the idea of staying on higher ground – the next part of the trail allowing him access over the jagged cliffs and rewarding him with many lookouts. But instead he found himself drawn to the water’s edge, his feet making their way down the sharp slope before he could think better of it.

  When he hit the sand, he walked into the breeze, the rush of air against his face icy but soothing. The beach was his alone as far as he could see; the waves were tickled with the golden colours of the sky as they played with limestone clusters. What a magical place.