The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  She glared in her rear-view mirror, where a man was unnecessarily shaking his head. Wanker. Scarlett flicked the radio on and then turned it straight off. Her head was too full of whirring thoughts for any further noise.

  Finding the freeway entrance, she accelerated hard, refusing to allow cars in the slip lane to merge ahead of her.

  She stared at the signs to the peninsula. She’d been right to avoid the cursed seaside town for all these years. It had been a mistake to return. She shook her head. Yet here she was, forced to make a trip there once again.

  Scarlett bit her lower lip, pulse racing.

  With any luck, this would be the final time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The mattress was uncomfortable, with a noticeable dip in the middle where the support had long gone, causing her to roll into the snoring body beside her. She clawed her way back to the edge, face now pressed against the wall of the small bedroom. Why had she agreed to stay the night?

  Pippa groaned, again wishing for the quiet of the little vacant home on Koonya Avenue, the thrill of sneaking in through the back window, and the sound of only the birds outside to wake her.

  She wiggled lower. Urgh. A waft of hot air hit her as she turned towards Tobias. How could his breath be that bad? She grimaced, using her knees to nudge him from her. He coughed, then snorted. More disgusting smells. She froze, lying still on her back. Eventually, the insistent snoring returned, the heavy vibration of air wheezing in and out. Gross.

  She waited a while, to be sure he was settled, before slipping down under the sheets, inching her body vertically to reach the base of the bed, an awkward dismount onto the cold floor. Where are my clothes? She padded around in the dark, finally finding the soft pile of materials.

  She retrieved her phone from her jeans pocket, the light of the screen enough to make her squint. It was already well after 9 am. Didn’t he have a job to get to?

  Poking her head out the door, she checked no flatmates were around before making a run for the bathroom, exposed except for her comfy pink knickers.

  She locked the door behind her, glad to see a relatively clean-looking shower and a shelf of spare towels. Running the warm water, she inspected the many bottles that lined the cabinetry. For a house of only males, there were an awful lot of gels, cleansers and exfoliants. She flipped the lids of a few, choosing the least offensive-smelling body wash.

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, feeling the muscles in her neck and back releasing as the water rushed over her shoulders. It was time to find Leicester Reyes, she decided. But how would she make the approach? She frowned, playing out different scenarios in her mind.

  ‘Pippa?’ The knock interrupted her thoughts.

  She turned the taps down a little, opening the glass door of the shower cubicle so she could hear. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve made you a coffee.’ The voice in the hallway hesitated.

  Please go away.

  ‘I can keep it out here for you if you like . . . or I could come in and join you?’

  Good grief.

  She watched the handle tentatively turn. Locked.

  ‘Why don’t you wait for me in bed? I won’t be long.’

  Her words were met with retreating footsteps. Thank goodness.

  Pippa stepped back under the full blast of the shower. It wasn’t his fault she was going off him; it seemed to happen with every guy she met. There’d be a short burst of electricity and then . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like something inside of her just went dead.

  She squirted more of the gel into her palms. How much longer could she stall for? She took her time, lathering bubbles on every body part possible. Eventually, she forced herself out. With the largest of the towels wrapped around her, she tiptoed back down the hall and to his room.

  ‘Alright, where’s this wonderful coffee that I’ve heard so much about—’ She stopped, a rush of panic sweeping through her. ‘What are you doing? What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Tobias was perched on the edge of his bed, her black backpack open beside him.

  ‘You’re cute in this photo.’ He held up the ID from her wallet.

  What else has he gone through?

  ‘Put that back. You have no right to go through my things.’

  ‘What?’ He looked shocked, and then immediately sheepish. ‘I didn’t think it would be such a big issue, sorry.’

  Pippa’s eyes fell to the travel pouch beside him. ‘You don’t think that creeping through my possessions is a massive breach of trust?’ She hugged the towel in tighter to her damp body, wishing she could lose the angry edge to her voice, but completely unable to calm down. ‘Put it back.’

  ‘Yeah, alright, I said I was sorry.’

  Grabbing the top handle of the backpack, he picked it up, not noticing the whole front compartment was hanging open. Too late.

  Shit. Pippa dropped to the floor, hurriedly collecting her odds and ends, the dirty underwear, toiletries . . .

  ‘What’s this?’ He was holding a plastic sleeve of papers.

  ‘Nothing, just put it away.’

  ‘Pippa . . .’ His voice was different now, uncertain. ‘Why have you got all this?’ He pulled out a photocopy of an article from which Cecilia’s bright face beamed out. Several smaller news clippings fluttered out after it.

  ‘I told you to put it away.’ Her voice was shrill, and she knew if any flatmates were around, they’d be listening with fascination to every word that ricocheted throughout the house. Calm down. Keep it together. Breathe.

  ‘I’m just embarrassed.’ She swirled a lump of saliva in her mouth, her throat dry and scratchy. ‘I got so interested in that case you were telling me about that I went and did a bit more research on it.’ She reached for the paper, gently plying it from his hand. ‘I wanted to be able to talk intelligently to you about it, that’s all. I was hoping to impress you.’

  Tobias nodded slowly, a hint of colour returning to his face. ‘That’s very sweet,’ he eventually murmured, unable to meet her eyes.

  ‘Is there still a chance of that coffee?’ Pippa tried to laugh, giving him a poke in the ribs for good measure.

  ‘Yeah, of course. But this one’s probably a bit cold – I’ll get you another.’ He disappeared out the door, one hand on her full mug of coffee, the other on his forehead.

  As soon as she was alone, Pippa dropped back to the floor, doing a sweep under the bed. It’s okay. No big deal.

  She found a few of the smaller pieces and carefully bundled them back together in the plastic sleeve. Then she zipped everything up in her bag and hurriedly got dressed.

  When he returned, she was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his mattress, hands clasped in her lap, eyes wide. ‘You don’t think I’m crazy now, do you?’ She reached forward, squeezing an arm as he joined her on the bed.

  ‘Of course not.’ His lips almost lifted to a smile.

  The office was quiet when Emmett got in; Bianca was starting late and Flynn busily worked away at his desk, door closed and headphones on.

  ‘Big day today.’ Calvin Briggs rounded a corner, rubbing his hands together. ‘Big day indeed.’

  ‘The Jimmy Lucas disappearance?’ Emmett asked, noticing a sting of jealousy at being pulled off that investigation.

  ‘Yep. I’m sure you heard – our suspect Hargreaves has been hiding out in Auckland the past couple of years. We’ve got an extradition order underway and thankfully the Kiwis have been straight on it. With any luck, we should have him back in the country by tonight.’

  ‘Great. Good work.’

  ‘Yeah, and even better, once we’ve got everything tied up nicely, the super’s given his okay for me to officially join your team; with your blessing, of course.’

  ‘Sure. That’d be terrific.’ Emmett smiled, before retreating to his office. Why did he feel resistant at getting more help?

  He sat at his desk, notes and folders left sprawled about, the shock death of Daphne Innisberg leavi
ng him behind on paperwork once again.

  He sighed, picking up a pen and flicking it distractedly. Her car had been taken for analysis, the contents of the boxes in her boot photographed and filed. But Greg Brabham had been right, there was nothing of much interest in them at all. Was her death the result of an accident, a deliberate fall, or something worse?

  And what about Cecilia’s jumper and sock? Emmett woke up his computer and absentmindedly opened his notifications. The items had been sent to forensics, but a further search of the area had uncovered no additional evidence. Why had their killer decided to discard only those pieces now? Had they been hidden with the bones? If so, where were the rest of her clothes?

  Emmett scanned through the various messages. No notable exchanges were marked in the monitoring logs from Lanh’s operation, though it was early and the meter-reading shift had only just begun.

  There was some good news, he noted: permission to search Warren Turton’s house and monitor telecommunications activity had come through, and the arrangements were in place for the afternoon’s covert search. He jiggled his feet under the table. Entering a suspect’s house without their knowledge wasn’t something he liked to do as a matter of course, but in this case it made sense. If they conducted a full raid it would rattle Warren, destroying any progress Lanh had made as part of the undercover operation. But as it was, he seemed to be relaxing, their use of the decoy suspect perhaps allowing him to drop his guard for the first time since Cecilia vanished.

  ‘Can I have a minute?’ Flynn was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s about Scarlett Reyes.’ The detective joined him at his desk, pulling a chair in so they were facing each other. ‘I went and spoke to her mother yesterday, as you know . . .’

  Emmett nodded, realising he’d forgotten to ask how that meeting went.

  ‘She told me something very interesting. Apparently, back when Cecilia went missing, Scarlett was “heavily involved” with a young man local to the Blairgowrie area.’

  ‘You’re not going to say who I think you are . . .’ Emmett’s mind began racing.

  Flynn flipped open his notepad. ‘In her words it was “a boy by the name of Dean who lived in a church”. She says the pair were on-and-off dating for several years, and things seemed to have “heated up” in the months prior to Cecilia’s disappearance.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She’d noticed that Scarlett was keen to visit her dad more than ever, always pleading to be able to spend weekends or days off down by the beach. But, weirdly, she never mentioned “the young church boy” again after the incident – or wanted to go back to Blairgowrie.’

  Emmett twisted his lips, remembering Leicester’s sad face. I suppose this place reminds her of that day. I guess I do, too. Maybe there was more to it than the father knew.

  ‘If Scarlett was meeting her boyfriend during these trips, it stands to reason that the other girls might have had male friendships as well.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Flynn nodded. ‘And isn’t it odd that Dean never mentioned Scarlett to you when you spoke to him about Robert Innisberg’s alibi for Warren Turton? Wouldn’t the fact that he’d actually been dating one of Cecilia’s friends have been a pretty normal thing to bring up while discussing her disappearance?’

  ‘It would.’ Emmett thought back over their interview with the revolting man. Had they pressed Dean enough? Or had both he and Bianca been so keen to get away from him that they’d missed something obvious? ‘And Scarlett has never mentioned it either,’ he realised, thinking aloud. ‘At no stage during any of her police interviews over the years has she brought his name up, despite knowing that Dean’s adoptive father Robert was the alibi that set Warren free.’

  ‘It’s all feeling a bit . . . what’s the word?’ Flynn scratched his head.

  ‘Incestuous?’ Emmett scoffed, shaking his head.

  ‘Precisely.’

  But how does it all fit together? Emmett clicked a notification that had popped up on his computer: a message from forensics. He scanned the note hurriedly.

  ‘Well?’ Flynn raised one eyebrow.

  ‘That’s confirmation from forensics.’ Emmett became aware of an unease setting in. ‘The jumper and sock that were found at Dogs Head carried traces of Cecilia May’s DNA.’

  ‘That’s great!’ Flynn’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Emmett murmured unconvincingly. But why would the killer hold on to her clothes for all these years, only to leave them out for someone to find now?

  The shift was meant to start at 10 am on the dot, but it was already nearly a quarter past when Lanh made it to the correct street, sprinting alongside his bike to the designated meeting place.

  ‘Really sorry mate,’ he puffed, leaning his bike against a tree as he doubled over and caught his breath. ‘Got held up.’

  ‘Held up?’ Warren’s eyes were narrow. ‘If you want to make any money reading meters, you don’t have the luxury of getting held up. Got it?’

  ‘My bad.’

  ‘Right, well, get moving. We’re way behind schedule.’

  Lanh got straight into action, remembering to make mistakes as he entered the data into the app so that his teacher would correct him, and finding whatever opportunity he could to make small talk.

  But really, he wanted time alone.

  ‘I need to take a piss,’ he finally announced, once they’d rushed through enough meters to warrant the interruption. Warren rolled his eyes, trudging over to a low fence, where he sat with his knees straddled out wide.

  Lanh dashed across the road and into some shrubbery.

  Any idea what the weather is today?

  He sent the text, checking nervously over his shoulder to make sure Warren hadn’t followed. It was the agreed way he could reach Emmett from his burner phone – any reference to the weather telling his boss that he was alone and needed to talk.

  The phone rang immediately.

  ‘All okay?’

  ‘Yep, I don’t have long, but there’s something you should know,’ Lanh whispered. ‘I went and spoke to two of the key witnesses this morning – the woman who made the sighting of Cecilia in the white sedan, and the other one, who saw her at a bus stop—’

  ‘Oh, you’re not on about this again, are you?’ Emmett’s tone was curt. ‘You’re in the middle of an undercover operation – where are your priorities?’

  ‘No, listen.’ Lanh’s urgency finally seemed to have the desired effect, his boss silent on the other end. ‘One of the women got the day wrong.’

  ‘What? The one who saw her at the bus stop?’

  ‘No,’ Lanh whispered. ‘The other one. But I only just realised it now. I was asking her about the morning she saw the car, and she said she’d been watching the Vietnamese cooking program on SBS that morning, before going for a walk.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That program was only on Tuesday mornings. I know because Mum used to insist on watching it, then we’d always be late for music class at school.’

  ‘Wait. So you think the sighting of Cecilia in the white sedan was actually made on the Tuesday morning? The morning before she disappeared.’

  ‘Before she supposedly disappeared, yes. And on the same day the bus stop sighting was made. And the same day those phone calls were—’

  ‘Thought you needed a piss?’

  Lanh leapt at the sudden gruff voice, spinning around to find Warren standing uncomfortably close.

  ‘Ha. Yeah, I did, and then me mum rang to wish me a happy birthday . . .’ Lanh dropped the phone limply to his side, wondering how much Warren had heard. ‘I couldn’t just hang up on her now, could I?’

  ‘It’s your birthday?’ Warren scowled, before shrugging. ‘Well, happy birthday. Now hurry the fuck up.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The drive to Blairgowrie had taken longer than she’d hoped, and by the time she was passing the familiar strip of shops near the foreshore, her left calf was cr
amping uncomfortably. Scarlett pulled up at a crossing, allowing herself only a fleeting glance at the sparkling water on her right, where a surprising number of people were out walking on the skinny strip of sand. Among them, two teens, holding hands. Her chest heaved. Don’t do it.

  She turned left, happy to put her foot down and accelerate away from the bay.

  At the intersection with Melbourne Road, the Koonya General Store glistened with a new lick of forest green paint, the historic architecture a beacon on the otherwise uninspiring thoroughfare. She pulled into the gravelled carpark.

  The door jingled as she entered, the shop largely a convenience store but with a few plastic chairs and tables at the back for those who wanted to dine in.

  Scarlett perused the unimpressive menu on a chalkboard behind the counter. It was almost midday, but she hadn’t eaten. ‘A skim latte and some fruit toast,’ she mumbled, unintentionally glimpsing the newspapers on the shelves below her. Cecilia was still front-page news.

  The attendant gestured to the credit machine. She tapped her card, ignoring the little bags of lollies at the front. How many of those had they worked their way through over the years? She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll bring it out to you, take a seat.’

  Choosing the chair furthest from the door, Scarlett sat with her knees pressed together, feet jiggling up and down, pulse racing. She’d wanted to use the pit stop to calm herself and prepare for the confrontation to come, but there’d be no calming her now, not until she had answers.

  ‘Thanks.’ She stared at the paper plate plonked before her: one slice of barely cooked toast and a small gold parcel of cheap butter.

  The coffee was equally disappointing, and she sipped it dejectedly while flicking through messages on her phone.

  Will you be okay for the weekend?

  Not sure. See how I go today.

  Her boss had been furious she’d called in sick again, but he’d get over it. Besides, she thought, as she bit into the floppy bread, it was her that was losing all the potential commissions, not him.