The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  Overall, the reunion had gone better than expected, her initial anger at her father’s betrayal subsiding the moment she’d seen him. They’d spent the entire day talking, treading slowly and carefully through their memories, piecing every painful moment back together, until the chasm between them felt at least a little less deep.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Dean had attacked Cecilia?’ She’d started on the defensive, blurting out the few details she’d learnt from Dean’s sob story in her car – how that spineless cretin of a boyfriend had assaulted Cecilia at the party; how Cecilia had complained of the attack to Leicester; and how he, in turn, had warned Dean away from her. ‘Why didn’t you let me know what was going on?’

  ‘I had to protect you.’ Her dad’s eyes had sparkled. ‘Cecilia was fragile when she got home from that party, and she didn’t want me to know what had happened; I only pried it out of her when I overheard her trying to phone home. And when she eventually admitted it all I was so furious – I swear, I could have killed that bastard. I wanted to rip his limbs from his body knowing that he’d hurt your friend and betrayed your trust. Of course, I told Cecilia I’d help her report the incident, but she was scared and said she needed time. And then, after she disappeared, I was mostly just thinking about you. It was selfish, I know, but Dean had threatened to bring you into things if I filed a formal case against him.’

  ‘Bring me into things?’

  ‘The drugs, Scarlett. He told me you’d been mucking around with narcotics: buying stuff from his mates, selling them on to your schoolfriends. Technically, you were trafficking – it could have got really messy. I just wanted you away from all the scandal, for you to be able to have a life far beyond the shadow of this place.’

  Scarlett had wept at this admission, sitting in the garden out the back, her head buried in her hands. What had been particularly surprising was how she could still feel such immense shame for her misadventures as a teenager – age not softening her desperate desire to please her dad one bit.

  ‘It’s okay, honey.’ Leicester had rubbed her shoulders and back, the tentative but firm touch only serving to set her off further, as the realisation of all the lost years between them set in. Now she understood why her father had been so distant in the weeks and months after the incident, why he’d sent her back to her mother’s with such a sense of finality, why there were no more invitations to come and spend a weekend fishing or a summer holiday exploring rockpools.

  It was all because of Dean.

  Scarlett had felt the anger burning stronger than ever, and eventually she’d had the confidence to admit a long-repressed worry: that Dean was somehow involved in her friend’s disappearance. ‘I never told you, but I actually spoke to him the night Cecilia disappeared, straight after I got off the phone to you. I rang to warn him that she’d gone crazy, that I’d given her some tablets and that she’d gone off her head. He said he’d go looking for her. What if he was the one . . .?’

  ‘He wasn’t.’ Leicester had smiled; a sad, tired smile. ‘I had my suspicions about Dean, too, for obvious reasons. So I made sure the investigators in charge looked into his movements that night, but everything checked out. He wasn’t the one who killed Cecilia. That person, tragically, was even closer to home.’

  The conversation had moved on to Warren Turton, how he’d finally been arrested, unlikely to ever taste freedom again.

  ‘It’s over, darling.’ Leicester had kissed her on the cheek and headed for bed, leaving her to mull over her thoughts in the dark, listening to the rustle of nocturnal creatures and reacquainting herself with the whispers of the ocean.

  But now she’d slept on it, she could no longer ignore the nagging worry buried deep in the recesses of her mind. Was it really over? She felt the queasiness in her stomach grow. The problem with all the explanations so far was that they only partially explained Cecilia’s behaviour on the day she went missing.

  Her friend had been on edge, skittish, and scared. And the claim of Dean’s assault wasn’t the only accusation Cecilia had made.

  Stop it. Scarlett rubbed at her temples. The other stuff was nonsense. Was it, though? She closed her eyes. A dribble of snot rolled to her lips.

  For all this time she’d convinced herself that Cecilia had been in the throes of a bad comedown from the drugs. What else could explain her foul mood and the wild claims she kept making? But maybe she hadn’t been hallucinating? Maybe she wasn’t as whacked out as she’d thought?

  And if she’d been telling the truth about Dean . . .

  No. Scarlett opened her eyes and breathed out. The thought she was entertaining was ludicrous. Outrageous.

  Revolting.

  She rubbed her stomach and straightened up a little. Dean was one thing, but the rest was fantasy. A disgusting, twisted fantasy.

  Scarlett nodded vigorously, as though to affirm this idea to herself.

  What she knew for sure was that Cecilia had been angry. Seriously angry.

  She clenched her teeth, allowing herself to replay the night just one more time. They’d been standing near the circle of rocks. Gypsy had vanished into the bushes. Cecilia had taken the moment to accost her . . . What was it she’d said? Scarlett wiggled further forward on the edge of the bed. Cecilia had claimed once again that Dean had forced himself on her the night prior, blamed Scarlett for leaving her alone at the party, said something about the drugs and the booze and the boys . . .

  And the rest.

  Scarlett sniffed loudly, the involuntary action bringing her back to the present.

  And then? What happened, Scarlett? She hugged her arms around her chest, urging the voice in her head to go away. For so long she’d kept her shame buried, but it was all coming to the surface now. She couldn’t stop it.

  I pushed her.

  She wiped at her nose, remembering the feeling of her friend’s bony collarbone on her fingertips. It had only been a jab, a sharp jolt to snap her out of her craziness, but Cecilia had reacted badly, lunging at her with a scream, a blood-curdling howl, as she’d punched her hard, striking her left eye. Scarlett had dropped to the ground, moaning in pain.

  That’s when Cecilia had run.

  Emmett’s ringtone shrieked from the bedside table and he initially mistook it for his alarm, swatting around lazily for the handset before bothering to sit up.

  Shit. He saw Greg Brabham’s details flash on his screen, as he just missed the call. He immediately phoned back.

  ‘Detective Corban? Mate, sorry to ring so early but we’ve got a bit of an issue. A big issue, actually. I’m afraid one of my officers has been seriously hurt.’

  Emmett placed a hand over his mouth so the sergeant wouldn’t hear his yawn. ‘Some kind of accident?’

  ‘No. He was attacked. Inside Warren Turton’s place.’

  The full force of the news was enough to switch Emmett’s brain into overdrive. ‘Not Constable Haigh?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. He was found unconscious in the kitchen. Luckily, one of my men realised he hadn’t called in with his routine update and he went by to make sure he was alright. He located the patrol car unattended, and Haigh on the floor of Mr Turton’s kitchen – whacked on the back of the head by some sort of blunt instrument by the look of things.’

  Jesus. ‘What’s his condition?’

  ‘He’s been taken to the Royal Melbourne. I’ve got an officer there to provide regular updates.’

  ‘Any thoughts on a suspect?’

  ‘None at all. It can’t be our bloke in the cells, unless he’s pulled a Houdini.’

  Emmett cringed at the reminder that Warren Turton was in custody at the Sorrento station, only a few minutes’ drive from the cheap hotel room where he was staying. He was dreading resuming the tedious interrogation.

  ‘At this stage, all we know is that Haigh was attacked inside the property sometime after 7 pm on Friday night. He made no call for help and we have no witnesses as yet.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve got two of my detectives headi
ng up this morning, so let me know if you require any extra manpower – I can free them up for door-knocking or whatever’s needed.’ Emmett hung up and quickly chucked some clothes on so he could share the information with Bianca, who was staying in the room next door.

  It had been an awkward check-in process the previous evening, thanks to the humiliating events on the beach and the clerk on the desk, who’d presumed they were a couple, immediately trying to move their booking to the one room.

  ‘We’ve had more than enough close contact tonight,’ Bianca had quipped, half teasing and half deadly serious.

  Emmett had wanted to shrink into the ground.

  With any luck this was the only night they’d need to stay on location.

  ‘Right to go?’ Bianca honked from the car once they’d checked out.

  They didn’t even stop for decent coffee, making do with the slightly-better-than-no-name-instant that Tobias had bought, and getting straight to it, organising for an officer to bring Warren to the same interview room they’d used the day prior.

  ‘Thought you lot had forgotten about me,’ the former teacher sneered, giving them both an unnecessary physical appraisal. ‘You certainly took your time.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ Emmett rubbed his eyes. ‘We apologise for the delay, but we have had rather a lot on our plate since we left you. And, unfortunately, there was a bit of an incident at your house.’

  Warren rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ His chair screeched as he slumped back in it. ‘Let me guess, some prick’s gone and graffitied it again?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  The man was doing his best to appear nonchalant, but the flicker of his eyes gave away his worries. ‘What?’ he finally spat. ‘What have they done?’

  Emmett glanced at Bianca. They’d agreed to only tell Warren as much as he needed to know. He chose his words carefully. ‘We’re trying to work out whether there was some sort of break-in last night. Have you had any issues with that sort of thing of late?’

  ‘Other than you lot sneaking in whenever you damn well feel like it?’ Warren sniped. Then his face fell. ‘Hang on, what did they take?’

  ‘Nothing. From what we can see.’

  ‘So, what’s the big deal? Oh, don’t tell me,’ his sneer was back, ‘your lot didn’t lock up properly, and you’re worried about getting sued. Well, if I was either of you, I’d have bigger worries on my mind, like that fact you still don’t know who killed that teenager.’

  ‘Right. Speaking of who killed Cecilia May . . .’ Emmett flipped open his folder of notes, ‘we’ve got a preliminary forensic report from the search that was conducted on your property yesterday afternoon. Some interesting reading in here.’

  Warren’s pupils dilated, but he stayed quiet.

  ‘As you know, we seized your electronic items and, I have to say, the search history on your laptop is interesting.’ Emmett ran his right index finger down a page as he read: ‘How do you clean up a crime scene? How is DNA traced on clothing? What substances can contaminate bone? How heavy is a human skeleton . . .?’ He stopped, looking up to see the reaction of the man opposite.

  But Warren simply shrugged.

  ‘I can’t imagine that will play well in court,’ Bianca chimed in. ‘I reckon you’ll be hard pressed to find a jury that isn’t swayed by such a damning list of search terms. And can you imagine once this gets out to the media? The press will have a field day with it.’

  Emmett squirmed at the mention of the media. He should have phoned Cindy last night, if only to check she’d made it home safely. But he just . . . couldn’t.

  ‘I thought your bank statements were interesting, too.’ He gladly changed focus. ‘Twenty-two dollars at a hardware store? What was that for, I wonder?’ He paused, as though seriously considering this question. ‘I guess that’s about the right price range for a shovel. Like the one we found inside your property.’ He turned the paper over, jabbing to the mention of the shovel in the appendix of items seized.

  Warren’s upper lip curled. ‘If this is all you’ve got, you may as well let me go now.’

  ‘The problem with those cheaper spades is that they can be clumsy to manoeuvre,’ Bianca smiled. ‘And I imagine if you were digging up – say, human bones – there’s a chance the shovel’s head could leave an indent on the remains if you weren’t too careful.’

  Emmett was pleased to see Warren’s eyes flicker, his eyelids blinking rapidly. ‘So,’ he clasped his hands before him, ‘I guess the million-dollar question now is: where were you initially keeping the bones?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  She’d spent most of the night scrolling on her phone, flicking from one news outlet to another, refreshing webpages and waiting for the story she was sure was about to break: POLICEMAN FOUND DEAD IN PAEDOPHILE HOUSE.

  Pippa wiggled on the couch where she sat, a full bowl of oats cradled in her lap, the anxiety in her stomach making it impossible to eat. How could I have done that? She shook her head, shivering.

  She’d replayed the moment over and over, pausing in the seconds right before impact, trying to recreate a scenario in which she didn’t hear the crack of the rolling pin meeting Tobias’s skull; didn’t see him falling to the ground.

  Pippa wiped at her face, where tears were trickling down her cheeks. She wasn’t a violent person, what had come over her? I snapped. She sniffed loudly. So what now?

  She would be put in jail, left to spend the rest of her days behind bars, in a country on the other side of the world. She’d be forced to come face-to-face with the policeman’s family, have to explain herself before a judge, and then she’d be alone. No one worrying, no one writing, no one caring. She looked to her backpack, lying on the floor by the rear windows where she’d dumped it as she’d rushed in the previous evening. Her passport was still valid – maybe she should try to leave? Could she hitchhike to Melbourne and get the first flight out?

  There was just the small issue of money for the return ticket.

  She swirled her spoon in the bowl, moving clumps of oats from one side of the porcelain to the other. Her only hope was in remaining undiscovered, she realised, pushing the image of Tobias’s face aside, hearing his exuberant laugh as they’d mucked around in the ocean.

  Who knew where she was staying right now? No one. Who had seen her enter the house on the hill? Only Tobias. Pippa felt her shoulders drop.

  Her DNA wouldn’t be on file. The police couldn’t automatically match her to the crime scene. There was no reason why anyone would suspect her.

  She tried a small mouthful of the now mushy substance. It slid down her throat in one gross, congealed lump.

  Wobbling, she stood up. A quick slurp of caffeine and a change of clothes was what she needed, she decided, grabbing her one clean top and her roll-on deodorant from the pile in the corner.

  She had no choice now but to finish what she’d started.

  The arrival of Flynn and Lanh at the Sorrento station was a relief, and Emmett was happy to leave Warren to his lunch in the cells, joining his colleagues in the meeting room at the back.

  ‘Looked like you were struggling a bit in there?’ Flynn stated the obvious, dropping a heavy plastic tub onto the table, full of folders and papers.

  Emmett did his best not to react defensively, hating the fact his colleagues had caught the worst of the faltering interview. ‘He’s getting more and more belligerent. I’d thought drip-feeding him evidence would get him rattled. But if anything, it seems to be going the other way.’

  Bianca nodded, looking concerned. ‘If he continues to refuse to answer questions, there’s not much point persisting. We have enough to arrest him on as it is, maybe we just take him away now and use our time to build the case rather than stroke his ego?’

  ‘We could do.’ Emmett hated that he was being trumped by the insipid man, but his colleagues had a point. ‘He’s been absolutely inflexible the whole way through. Not even the discovery of Cecilia’s sock in his laundry has
bothered him. He keeps insisting he has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Well, he can have a good time convincing a jury of that,’ Flynn laughed.

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Bianca nodded.

  ‘There’s something that’s been bothering me.’ Lanh spoke for the first time, the toffee voice back now that he was no longer playing the part of an undercover bogan. ‘Those other items you say were found out on Dogs Head – the pink jumper and the single sock – where exactly were they located?’

  Emmett felt immediately frustrated, having to put his sandwich down to open up his folder of notes. And all because Lanh wanted to play some kind of game of one-upmanship. ‘Here.’ He shoved the diagram at his younger colleague.

  Lanh frowned. ‘It’s not right. I walked that entire area the first time we went there. Those clothes weren’t there.’

  An exasperated sigh escaped his lips and Emmett closed his eyes for an extended second before answering. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. That’s where the officers found Cecilia’s clothes.’

  ‘Can’t be.’ Lanh shook his head. ‘Unless they were put there after the bones were discovered.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that by some stroke of brilliant foresight you checked that particular crevice?’ Bianca interrupted, her tone unusually aggressive.

  Emmett hesitated. He actually could vividly remember Lanh scampering about the rocks, bending down and peering into different gaps, taking in the whole setting.

  ‘You’re suggesting the items were planted at Dogs Head?’ He tried a more congenial approach.

  ‘They have to be,’ Lanh’s overt certainty returned. ‘And that also explains the troubling find of the sock in his laundry basket.’

  ‘Troubling? Why do you say that?’ Emmett asked.

  ‘Why would her sock just happen to be in his washing basket now, right as the case is reopened, more than twenty years after Cecilia disappeared? He’s had so much time to dispose of it, do you really think he just happened to take it out of wherever he’d been hiding it and . . . what? Wash it?’