She fetched a torch from under the kitchen sink and a fold-out stepladder from the laundry. She took both upstairs to the master bedroom and set them down below the manhole cover. It was still open, just a sliver. She took care climbing the rickety ladder to the fourth rung. The lip of the manhole was thick with cobwebs and muck, but there were clean marks in the dust. Someone had been here recently. She wondered if the police were so thorough that they’d check the storage space in the roof, but it didn’t seem likely.
She slid the cover open. A layer of black hovered beyond. She trained the beam of her torch into the space, but all she saw were more cobwebs clinging to exposed ceiling rafters. She moved up to the top rung of the stepladder so that her head was inside the hole. If she really wanted to get a look inside, she was going to have to climb in. The ladder shook as she stepped off it, but thankfully it didn’t topple.
She found her feet, then shone the torch wildly around her immediate space, checking for spiders, before arcing it around the room to check for monsters and killers. The ceiling was low, its sloped walls packed with pink insulation. There was an old boogie board stored to the left of the manhole and a crate of old newspapers.
She shifted the torch beam down and gasped. There were bare footprints against the dusty floor, trailing deep into the storage space.
‘Hello?’ she called.
If anyone had answered her, she might have leaped back through the manhole fast enough to break her neck. But the storage space was silent. The back of her head tore through a thick cobweb. She frantically pulled white silk strips from her hair, then told herself to calm down. The torch beam trembled. She trained it on the footprints and followed them. One after another, they led her deeper into the dark.
It was cramped and hot. Her heart sped up. Sweat pooled on the collar of her T-shirt. The ceiling was too low. The space was somehow both claustrophobic and a vast, endless void at the same time. She clipped her foot against something hard and winced in pain. She shone the torch at her feet and saw a paint-stained old dumbbell. John had brought a set to the island once, years ago, with the intention of working out every morning, but she couldn’t remember ever seeing him use them.
She scanned the space left to right and spotted the light switch. She hit the switch with the heel of her hand, but nothing happened.
She was about to walk away from the light switch when she noticed the electrical outlet below it, switched off. A power board was plugged in, and stuffed with double adaptors and extension cords that slithered out into the dark like snakes. She switched it on.
First there came a deep humming noise, rumbling out at her from different layers of space. Then, one after another, there were sparks of light. Stunning blues, bright greens and harsh whites. Bug zappers. Kate counted eleven – Russ Graves’s entire stock. They were clustered at various points around the room, forming a loose perimeter from corner to corner of the attic.
With real terror, she pictured John’s Visitor, its black eyes and featureless face, its thin mouth opening and moths fluttering out, filling the room. With the cavity now brightly lit, she had no need for the torch. She could clearly see the trail of footprints weaving around several stacks of clutter – a crate of pots and pans, a dusty stack of paperbacks, and a cardboard box marked, Mia’s Little Girl Toys – and then gathered at a small object. A black metal lock-box.
Two perfect round circles in the dust told Kate someone had kneeled before the box. She reached for it but recoiled when one of the bug zappers cracked loudly behind her. She turned, half expecting to see Mia’s child-eating gremlin scrambling towards her. An unlucky insect had met its end in the bug zapper, that was all.
Turning her attention back to the lock-box, she noticed it gleamed in the light and was clear of dust. She reached for the lid, but it was locked. She looked for a key but there was none. She shook the box, and a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. It was too hot in here, too tight, too strange. She felt like she was suffocating and hurried back to switch off the power board. In the fading glow of the bug zappers, she dropped down the manhole, birthing through it, feet first.
In the minutes it took her to replace the manhole cover and pack away the stepladder, she convinced herself that all the answers she had come here for were locked inside the metal box. She set it down on the kitchen table and fetched the toolbox out from under the sink. Inside were a few loose bolts, an IKEA screwdriver set, a dried-up old tube of superglue and a claw hammer.
She tried the screwdrivers first, experimenting with different sizes and head shapes. She jammed, stabbed and wiggled each into the locking mechanism, but it didn’t give. Next, she tried the hammer. She took it in her right hand, held the box steady in her left, then brought the hammer down. Her first attempt was weak; pathetic. She was being too cautious. Her second swing was hard. It came down on the lid with a crying clink. A shockwave reverberated all the way up her arm. Her blow left a shallow dent in the lid of the box, but it remained locked.
‘Damn it,’ she said, swinging the hammer a third time, more out of frustration now. The tip of the head caught the index finger on her right hand, and a dart of pain shot through her system. She yelped, dropped the hammer and threw the box across the room in anger. It shot out of the kitchen and into the hallway, struck the wall and fell to the floor in a shower of plaster dust. A triangular chunk was now missing from the wall, but the damn box was still locked.
Feeling hot rage, crushing sadness and actual physical pain, she began to sob, quietly at first, then madly. She folded to her knees, collapsed against the linoleum floor and let everything inside her spill out. Then, through wrenching, gasping tears, Kate screamed.
* * *
When she got back to the car, Kate was surprised to see a man standing beside it, cupping his hands to look through the tinted windows. The man had parked his own vehicle – a work truck – directly behind hers. Maintenance was printed down one side. Kate had seen the same truck the day before, idling outside the house. She hadn’t been able to make out the driver, but now she saw it was a man in his late thirties or early forties.
‘Can I help you?’ Kate asked nervously.
The man spun around, his boots crunching against gravel. Now that he was facing her, Kate saw that he was quite handsome: a heavy brow and deep, sad eyes made him look thoughtful. There were flecks of white in his hair and he wore a pale grey work shirt with Island Care embroidered on the breast pocket.
‘Shit, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was driving past and saw your car parked out front. Do you know the man who lived here?’
He pointed up at the house, yellow police tape zig-zagging across the front door.
She nodded. ‘I’m his wife.’
Although she supposed that wasn’t officially true anymore. She was his widow. Widow. That word was too sharp to swallow, too hot to hold in her hands.
‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to him. The whole island’s in a state of shock about it.’ He noticed the lock-box under her arm. ‘What do you have there?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, turning the box over in her hands. ‘I misplaced the key.’
‘I can help you open it, if you like?’
‘I don’t want to trouble you.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Can I take a look?’
She hesitated, then handed it to him. He studied it a second, then carried it over to his truck and set it down on the tray. He opened a red toolbox, took out a hammer and a flat-head screwdriver. She looked up the street. All the big houses were empty at this time of year. She was alone out here with this man.
‘I tried that already,’ Kate said.
Ignoring her, he wedged the screwdriver against the locking mechanism, then tapped the handle with the head of the hammer. After three or four well-placed strikes, the lock snapped inwards. He set his tools down and tried the lid of the box. With a little heavy-handed encouragement, it popped open. He looked inside for a long, cold moment, then
closed the lid and handed back the box.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘No worries.’
He reloaded his tools into the back of his truck, got in and drove away. Kate waited until the man was out of sight. She then climbed behind the wheel of her car, locked the doors and opened up the box.
18
THE WIFE
Biller was right. Bay Street was a circus. A bank of parked cars was clustered around the community centre, a budget-deprived brick building that shared a strip of land with the Belport Library.
The police had set up their information caravan on the wide front lawn, a sweep of lush green grass that turned yellow in the summer. It was less an actual caravan than a long white trailer with a marquee attached. Under the marquee was a small table with coffee and biscuits. Someone had placed a smooth rock on the top of the napkins to keep them from blowing away.
Several officers milled about, chatting to locals. A baby-faced constable stood with Mario Brumniach, who ran fishing tours in the on-season. They were standing over a map of the island. Mario was jabbing his finger against the map over and over. Nearby, old Nancy Malerman, who by now must have been pushing ninety, leaned against her walking frame, talking the ear off a heavy-set sergeant.
Abby watched all this as she drove past at a snail’s pace. She had to drive slowly, partly because the streets were full of locals who were apparently too excited to look both ways, and partly because she was curious.
No, it wasn’t curiosity anymore. It had started off that way – a murder in Belport had been a break in the monotony of island life. It had scratched the same itch taxidermy did, and true crime, and easing off the pedal when passing a car crash on the highway. But she was discovering that true crime was best experienced at a distance, in a safe, warm place, by an open fire or poolside at a resort.
Now everything seemed too close, too real, like going to a zoo without any cages. This – and she still wasn’t entirely sure what this was – had come into her house. Ray had brought it inside.
Back the fuck off, he’d said. Right now, that didn’t seem like terrible advice.
All the spaces in the Buy & Bye were taken, and in the end, she had to park in the Uniting Church lot across the street.
The Buy & Bye was bustling. It wasn’t quite summer business, but it was close. There was only one open check-out and it had a line of people snaking all the way back to the meat counter.
Biller stood at the check-out, scanning, sweating and smiling in equal measure. If he were a cartoon, there would have been dollar signs over his eyes.
‘There’s my girl,’ he bellowed when he saw Abby. ‘Check-out three is loaded and ready when you are.’
She slipped behind her register, peeled off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Half the line rushed up to meet her. The next hour was spent endlessly serving. It was mostly small purchases: snacks, drinks and cigarettes. Nobody was there for their weekly grocery shop. If The Sweet Drop Chocolate Shop was open this time of year – or Love Bite’s Bakery or Muffins ‘n Stuff or, hell, even The Dreamy Ice-Creamery – Abby guessed most of her customers would have gone there.
Everyone wanted to talk about murder, but Abby chose not to engage. It would only make her feel anxious – or worse, lead her to reveal her worries. Instead, she focused on scanning and bagging, on next please and have a nice day. If she lost focus, even for a second, Bobbi’s words were waiting for her like a pile of dirty dishes.
Someone knows something. Was she that someone?
Eventually the line thinned, the happy shoppers of the Buy & Bye drifted back out into the cold, and Abby and Biller had a moment to think. Biller didn’t waste any time.
‘What do you know, Abby?’ he asked, mopping his slick brow with the front of his polo shirt, exposing the soft white belly beneath it.
‘What do I know about what?’ she asked, but she knew exactly what he was asking. Biller waited. ‘A lot of gossip and not much else,’ she said.
Biller hoisted both garbage bags from each of their registers – neither had been emptied for over a week – and twisted the tops. He started hauling them towards the doors, moving with a spring in his step. ‘Do us a favour, Ab, and restock the Coke fridge, and, oh, check aisle three for vomit. Rose Furleo had her little Bernie in here and she lets that little brat run riot. Who names their child Bernie, by the way?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you buzzing like this,’ Abby said.
He stopped halfway to the door, then plopped the bags down on the floor. They landed with a wet smacking sound. ‘Well, it just so happens I have a juicy little nugget of murder gossip, if you’re interested.’
‘Actually, Biller, I’m not so sure we should be sharing nuggets of gossip anymore, juicy or otherwise. Don’t you think it’s sort of disrespectful?’
Biller fixed her with a look she read as either vaguely suspicious or vaguely constipated. ‘How’s the view from up there, Abby?’
‘Huh?’
‘From up there on your high horse.’
She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Fine, what’s your juicy nugget?’
He grinned. ‘Okay, so have you ever met my ex-wife, Helen?’
‘Not officially, but I’ve heard so many stories about her I feel like I have.’
Going by what she’d pieced together from Biller’s accounts, Helen Biller née Watts was a demon-headed monster ripped from folklore: a creature who collected the hearts of brave and gallant men to feast on in the three-bedroom Barwon Heads townhouse that she bought with her share of the settlement money.
‘Now, I have a, well, I suppose you’d call it a habit,’ Biller said. ‘Of calling her up on the phone anytime I get shit-faced. Sometimes I tell her I’m still in love with her, occasionally I tell her I wish she was dead, but mostly we just talk.’
‘Lucky lady,’ Abby said.
‘Anyway, last night was one of those nights. I made it two-thirds through the bottle of Glenfiddich I bought myself for an early birthday present, and before I knew it I had dialled her number. Helen would never admit this to me or anybody, but her heart’s still in Belport. She likes to keep abreast of what’s happening on the island, and we got to talking about the one thing around here worth talking about. As it turns out, she has a friend of a friend who works as one of those forensics. The ones who dust for prints and collect DNA. The way she tells it, there was blood all over the inside of that ferry terminal.’
Abby said nothing.
‘Splattered all the way up the rafters, apparently,’ he said, with a short, impressed nod. ‘What do you think about that?’
‘I think I should go and see about Bernie’s vomit,’ Abby said.
‘Ah, you’re no fun today.’
‘It’s like you always say: if you’ve got time for leaning you’ve got time for cleaning.’
With a shake of the head, he picked up the garbage bags and dragged them outside towards the hopper. On his way out the door, he passed a tall brunette who was on her way in. She was dressed in shades of grey, with hair that fell straight to the shoulders. Her hands dangled slackly by her side like a gunslinger’s.
She was naturally pretty. She wore no make-up but her skin was clear and smooth. Her eyes were deep and thoughtful, but there was something sad about them. Abby was strangely captivated by her.
It might have been that she was a stranger, which was unusual for this time of year. She didn’t look like a cop, but then again, neither did Bobbi. Her clothes looked too expensive to belong to a journalist, but of the two, that’s what Abby would have put her money on.
‘Can I help you find something?’ Abby asked.
The woman flinched, looked up as if snapping out of a trance, and frowned.
‘Cigarettes,’ she said.
‘No worries,’ Abby slid open the cigarette cupboard below her register. ‘What’s your brand? We have hand-rolled, menthols, cigars – we might even have some cloves in the back of the display if you’re feeling Gothy.’
The woman didn’t smile. She seemed unaware that Abby had even attempted a joke. It made her think of Lori.
‘I’ll just take a pack of Starling Blues.’
‘Excellent choice,’ Abby said wryly. ‘I could never afford this brand back when I smoked, but I always aspired to. I quit when I got pregnant. Not that it would have made much difference. I still couldn’t afford them.’
She was rambling. The woman curled her lips – an imitation of a smile. ‘How old’s your child?’
‘She’s sixteen, going on thirty-seven,’ Abby said. ‘And I have a fifteen-year-old son right behind her. Do you have kids?’
She nodded but chose not to elaborate. She flashed her impression of a smile again, paid for her cigarettes, and said, ‘Thanks, Abby.’
‘… How did you know my name?’
She made a gun with her index finger and pointed it at the badge on Abby’s chest that declared in bright red letters, Hello, I’m … ABBY!
‘Oh,’ Abby said. ‘Right.’
As the woman walked away, Abby thought her clothes looked too expensive, too pristine, too untouched to stink up with cigarette smoke. Abby used to love the smell of a lit smoke, but ever since she had kids it made her want to throw up harder than Bernie Furleo.
A new thought popped into her head then, as if it had been circling in a holding pattern, waiting for the air traffic controllers to wave it in. It might have been that she was thinking of old clothes at the exact moment she heard the clatter of Biller’s garbage bags against the floor of the dumpster, but she was suddenly transported back to the day of the big rain storm.
She’d come home and found a week’s worth of garbage on the road. The bin had toppled over in the wind. She remembered the ravens that had gathered to feast on their garbage, and she remembered the one last plastic bag that had rolled into the middle of Milt Street.
* * *
After her shift, Abby drove home along the esplanade. The scraps of coastal woodland that lined the road swayed and danced in the ocean breeze, alive and shadowy. To her left, a steep, grassy embankment climbed sharply up to the nature reserve. To her right, ten metres below, waves crashed onto jagged rocks.
The Wife and the Widow Page 13
