The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  Emmett hung up, aware of the questioning gaze of his colleagues. ‘Daphne Innisberg’s dead,’ he said, before any of them could jump in. ‘Found on the same beach where Cecilia’s remains were discovered.’

  ‘Shit,’ Bianca leapt to her feet and tugged at a long wool cardigan hanging on the back of her chair. Then she stopped, realising Emmett wasn’t following her lead. ‘You don’t want to head off yet?’

  ‘No, I do,’ he sighed, wishing the happiness he’d felt only minutes earlier could have lasted. ‘I just hate feeling so reactionary.’

  Bianca smiled, kindly. ‘Unfortunately, that’s the only way we can act in most of these instances. And if you ask me, all these new developments are a good thing. The discovery of Cecilia’s bones has clearly shaken things up and though I’m sure none of us wanted the Reverend’s wife dead, it does suggest there’s more to this case than maybe previous investigators uncovered.’

  ‘I’m certainly getting the sense that Robert Innisberg was more involved than initially suspected,’ Emmett nodded. ‘But I hate that we’re having our attention taken away from our plans yet again.’

  Flynn stood up and reached for a last piece of margherita, carrying it to the door with him. ‘You two get going, and leave Scarlett with me.’ He waggled the slightly soggy tip towards them. ‘You’ve already spoken multiple times with her dad, who you’ve said she’s estranged from, but what about her mother? If you’re happy for me to do so, I think it might be time to pay Mummy Reyes a visit.’

  ‘Why not?’ Emmett wondered why he hadn’t thought to do that sooner. From what Leicester had told him, Scarlett had primarily been living with her mother in the years before Cecilia’s disappearance.

  ‘Hopefully she can give us a bit of insight into her daughter’s frame of mind over that time, and why she’s been so reluctant to cooperate with police.’

  ‘Yes, and help us learn more about her trigger points,’ Bianca added, grinning. ‘No one knows how to poke at your sore spots like your mum.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Flynn took a small bite of his slice. ‘And I’ll bet that beneath that obnoxious exterior, Scarlett isn’t as nonchalant about this whole thing as she pretends to be.’

  The mixture was painful against her inflamed skin, and Pippa winced each time she pressed a soggy cotton ball to the worst of her cuts. A tear dribbled down to her lips. What was she doing here?

  She swirled a teaspoon in the bowl, moving granules of salt that had settled on the bottom. It’ll only sting for a moment . . . She could hear her mother’s words as she took another cotton ball and held it in the liquid, letting enough of the moisture absorb into it before dabbing it against the deepest scratch on her left calf. Another tear, and another. She gave up trying to hold them in, instead focusing on the slippery feeling of them sliding down her cheeks. Better than the stinging pain of the salt and vinegar mixture meeting her open grazes. Cathartic, really.

  After using the last of the cotton balls, Pippa pushed the bowl aside and allowed herself to flop back on the bed. She hadn’t left the house at all that morning, and she no longer cared if someone came in and found her. She’d made a terrible mistake. This whole thing was one giant screw-up.

  She snorted, an attempt at a sniff that got all blocked up and choked. Wiping at her nose with a hand, Pippa buried her head further into the pillow. She wanted to go home.

  What did you expect?

  The voice came from somewhere inside her.

  It was right, too, she realised, sniffing again. It was the grief that had done it, the unbearable loneliness and hopelessness that had spurred her on, chasing her around until she’d found herself strapped into seat 29K, a 32-hour trip looming before her.

  And for what? Pippa sat up stiffly.

  At first it had been enough just to be there, to know she was in the same country as her biological parents. Some sense of belonging.

  But then the bones had been discovered and she’d been called to this awful town. No money, no friends. No hope. She rubbed her eyes, seeing Warren Turton’s bewildered expression appear before her.

  ‘I just need to know what happened,’ she’d pleaded, chasing after him on the rocky trail. ‘Tell me what happened that night. You don’t understand . . .’ The path had been slippery. She hadn’t been watching her footing. ‘I think you might be . . .’

  My father.

  Her ankle had twisted; she’d been too close to the edge. Thank goodness for the spiky tree she’d managed to grab hold of as she’d fallen, managing to slow her slide to just a few metres down the jagged escarpment.

  But she’d lost him. The scrawny man had disappeared into the bush as she’d painfully clawed her way back to the sandy path.

  Pippa reached to the other side of the bed, where she’d dumped the black duffel bag the previous night. At least she had that.

  She grabbed at its handles and dragged it over to her lap. There’d been some satisfaction in taking his belongings, but why had the paedophile been hiding these things? She shrugged, unzipping the soft sports bag and poking around inside once again.

  She pulled out the first of the items and placed it on the bed, remembering how she’d bravely peered over the ledge at the peak of the horseshoe bend, just as she’d seen him doing. It had been a thrill to discover hidden treasure, tucked into a crevice immediately below the rocky shelf.

  Pippa withdrew another item from the depths of the sports bag, remembering how she’d had to lie on her stomach to prise it out from its wedged position. But what did it all mean?

  She stared at the belongings around her, utter confusion setting in. Inside the bag she’d found a pair of black-and-yellow gloves, a headlight and a black zip-up jumper. Her fingers twitched to her phone, which she’d left facedown on the bedside table. She found Tobias’s number, and wrote a quick message.

  Free later today?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘This church is so much more beautiful than the one in Rye, isn’t it?’ Bianca stood in the main hall of St John’s, enraptured by the stained-glass windows and ornate sculptures.

  ‘I guess it makes sense they chose to live here instead of there,’ Emmett murmured, moving quietly along the pews. ‘Quite a public lifestyle, though, being a Reverend. I’m not sure I would enjoy it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, people always coming and going, noises day and night. I wonder if it ever really felt private, or theirs.’

  ‘But their own quarters were entirely separate from the communal areas.’

  ‘Yes, but it’d be a bit like living in your garage while strangers wandered around your front yard and held functions in your house. A constant imposition.’

  ‘Right, well it doesn’t sound like you’re entirely suited to the role.’ Bianca laughed.

  ‘Detectives?’

  They turned to find a woman approaching them – tall, broad-shouldered and dressed dowdily, a heavy knitted skirt hanging to an awkward length above her ankles, a woollen jumper that made Emmett itchy just by looking at it.

  ‘I thought I could hear voices,’ she smiled nervously. ‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting – I had Daphne’s sister on the phone again; she’s an absolute mess, poor thing.’

  The woman led them through a wooden door at the side of the pulpit. They followed her past various rooms and spaces, the temperature noticeably cooler as they walked towards the rear of the building.

  ‘This was Robert’s office.’ She stopped in the doorway of a modest space, dark, with one small window. ‘Heaven knows why he chose this room to work out of; we were rather thinking we might use it as a storage cupboard.’

  ‘None of his belongings are still here?’ Emmett stepped in, scrutinising the empty desk and shelves.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Daphne cleared everything out. In fact, she collected his final possessions on Tuesday night, before leaving.’

  The boxes in the boot. He exchanged a knowing look with Bianca.

  They’d received an
other, more detailed briefing from Brabham during their drive down, the sergeant informing them that Daphne’s last known sighting was at the church and that, from there, she was expected to drive to her sister’s place in Rye, where she’d been temporarily staying.

  ‘Her sister’s quite distressed.’ Greg had sighed, as though the emotion was highly inconvenient. ‘Said she had no reason to go to the beach on her way back to her place, and that she’d intended on driving straight home. The search of the car hasn’t produced much either. A few old bits and pieces from her husband. Nothing significant.’

  Emmett pondered this as they continued out the other side of the church, across a small patch of neatly trimmed grass and into the detached cottage.

  ‘You’ve made it lovely and cosy.’ Bianca overtly scanned the lounge room, which was decorated with vintage furniture, family pictures hanging from the walls, and velvet throws on the couches. ‘It’s so homely.’

  ‘We wanted it to feel like ours. The move was all rather . . . sudden.’ The woman’s face fell, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of their unscheduled transfer to the congregation. ‘Let me just check where Lionel is; he was supposed to be putting the kettle on.’

  As though waiting for his command, the Reverend appeared through the side doorway with tea and biscuits.

  ‘Can I help?’ Emmett reached to take the tray from the man: rosy-cheeked and far older than he’d expected.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Sit down.’

  ‘We won’t keep you long.’ Bianca was perched like a meerkat, back straight and knees pressed together. ‘We understand the two of you might have been the last people to see Daphne. Is there anything you can tell us about her demeanour, anything that struck you as unusual?’

  ‘We didn’t know her all that well,’ the Reverend’s wife answered as she handed out delicate teacups. ‘She was very quiet, for the most part, but she was grieving, so we never pushed her to engage with us. We had a quick chat as she gathered Robert’s things on Tuesday afternoon and we said our goodbyes at about 4 pm. Of course, we were expecting to see her again this weekend at the services, so it was all very brief.’

  ‘I see.’ Bianca’s saucer wobbled on her lap. She moved it to the coffee table between them. ‘So, to your knowledge, Daphne left here at around four, and was intending on heading straight to her sister’s home?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the woman chuckled, as though the detective’s mistake was obvious. ‘She was still here at almost half-seven or so. We always lock the church doors in the evening before retiring for the night, and I was surprised to see her still sitting in a pew.’

  ‘She was on her own?’ Emmett asked.

  ‘Yes. She was quietly reflecting; praying, perhaps. I invited her to join us for dinner, but she said she was “taking a moment to say goodbye”. I feel badly now of course, but I didn’t think much of it. You have to allow people to grieve as they need, and she was very calm.’

  ‘She gave no indication of plans to go anywhere other than her sister’s? No suggestion that she was meeting someone, or—’

  The shrill sound of his phone cut through the conversation. ‘Excuse me.’ Emmett stood up. ‘I need to take this.’

  He stood on the patch of grass out the front of the house, the old church looming before him. ‘Brabham?’

  ‘Yeah, got some news.’ The sergeant’s voice was flat. ‘That pair of officers that were doing another sweep over Dogs Head?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They’ve made a bit of a discovery. I’ve told them not to touch it until we get it all bagged up. I imagine you’ll want it tested.’

  Bagged up? Emmett watched a magpie strut across the lawn. What’s he talking about?

  ‘Yeah, they had no luck finding any further witnesses to this supposed “lurker”, so they took it upon themselves to scout around the area further west. I was impressed by their initiative, actually.’

  ‘Hang on, what have they found?’

  ‘Oh right,’ the sergeant chuckled, almost nervously. ‘Sorry, running a million miles in here, too much on my plate.’

  Just get on with it.

  ‘You won’t believe it, but they think they’ve found some of Cecilia May’s clothes – an old pink-and-white jumper and a single floral sock.’

  ‘What?’ Emmett couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Yeah, they were hidden a bit further along, shoved into the rocks down the cliff a little. I’ve told them not to touch it. I’m getting the items collected for you.’

  ‘That’s great.’ He exhaled, unable to hide his delight. ‘Are you sure the jumper matches the known description?’

  ‘Seems to. Pink-and-white with a glitter thread running through it. Exactly as her friends remembered.’

  ‘Good. Make sure they get it sent straight to forensics. Also, ask the officers to keep searching the area nearby. There could be more.’

  ‘Understood.’

  After hanging up, Emmett took a moment to sit with the news. Finally. He felt a weight lift, a small smile creeping onto his lips. Was this the break they’d been waiting for? A final piece of evidence to link their suspect to the crime?

  He walked back into the cosy home, everything suddenly feeling much lighter.

  Thank goodness. He locked eyes with Bianca, wishing his colleague could read his mind. It might have taken more than two decades, but finally their killer was leaving a trail.

  The parking around the Frankston Hospital was mostly ticketed, so Scarlett stayed where she was, pulled up illegally at the kerb out front. She’d cancelled all her appointments immediately after getting Dean’s call, feigning a sudden illness to her boss, who’d been far from happy.

  But now she wondered why she’d bothered.

  I’m out the front, whenever you’re ready.

  She’d sent the text a good hour ago, and still there was no sight of Dean. She hadn’t missed him, had she? Scarlett did a quick scan of the surrounding area, ducking instinctively as she saw two figures emerge from the urgent care foyer. They had the confident swagger of people on a mission. Doctors? Or police? She slid lower in her chair as they passed.

  Police, she decided. That wasn’t good.

  Any news?

  She sent the text and dropped her phone on the passenger seat.

  Coming now.

  Thank god. Scarlett turned the radio down and checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Would he want to talk? Or did he just need the company?

  Her stomach swirled. She wasn’t good with grief. Or any emotions, really. But it was her he’d wanted to see. Not his wife. Not his son. Her. That had to mean something.

  Scarlett watched the automatic doors slide open, a sad figure appearing.

  Dean waved limply, walking as though dragging a ball and chain, his shoulders stooped, his face ashen.

  ‘Come here.’ Scarlett reached over as he clambered into the passenger seat, wrapping him up in as much of a hug as the confined space allowed.

  He was shaking; soft, unwanted tremors that vibrated against her; an occasional, snotty sob escaping from his mouth.

  ‘I can’t believe it. She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do what?’ Scarlett asked gently, starting the ignition, though she had no idea where he wanted her to take him.

  ‘They reckon she jumped.’ Dean shook his head, looking away from her and out the passenger side window. ‘The cops say the grief of losing Robert must have got to her. But they’re wrong; they’re wrong, aren’t they Scar?’

  Pressing her lips together, Scarlett pulled away from the kerb, driving slowly out of the hospital carpark, making the decision to head towards Blairgowrie.

  In truth, she was having trouble even picturing Daphne Innisberg, but she imagined a plump woman in a garden somewhere, maybe outside a church? Yes, she felt herself nodding, that seemed right. There was one time, early on in their relationship, when she vaguely recalled creeping out of Dean’s bedroom window and tiptoeing through the grass up the s
ide of St John’s. That must have been when she’d seen her.

  ‘You know how they found her?’ Dean blurted again, a rush of tears escaping. ‘Washed up on the shore, like a beached whale.’

  She let him cry, the man she’d only ever known as a pillar of strength spending most of the trip with his head in his hands, his body shivering and rocking.

  ‘You want me to drop you back home?’ she asked as they entered the town. She didn’t want to take him there, but it seemed the only reasonable place.

  ‘No.’ Dean shook his head, sniffing aggressively. ‘I want to see where Mum died. Can you take me to the lookout at Koonya?’

  Scarlett shivered. Really? Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. How was that going to be helpful . . . for either of them?

  ‘Sure,’ she flicked her indicator on and veered across the peninsula, finding her way along the streets as though she’d never been gone a day.

  The drive to the higher carpark was shorter and less steep than she remembered – but then again, the girls had always walked the slope. She pushed away the painful memories of the three of them happily ambling through the shrubbery, drawing her focus to the sniffling man beside her.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked, pulling up in the far corner where the view was unencumbered, just the deep ocean rolling out before them and the green blanket of tea-tree at either side.

  Dean drew his hands over his body, as though he physically needed to hold himself together.

  ‘It’s my fault, all of this, isn’t it?’ he murmured without turning to look at her.

  Scarlett swallowed a lump. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No, it is.’ Dean’s red eyes were fixed on the horizon. ‘Nothing good has happened since that night. Nothing since I lost you.’

  ‘You’re being silly.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Scarlett reached over and grabbed his hands, forcing him to turn and face her. ‘We both made mistakes. We couldn’t have known.’

  Dean’s lips twitched; his hands pulled away from her. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’ He retreated completely to his side of the car and Scarlett had the desperate urge to make him stop, to keep him from talking.