In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

“Do you still have the footage from the day this package was brought in?”

  “You think it’s drugs or something?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  A shrug. “I dunno. Like I said, the guy looked like a bikie. Plus, there was that news of that bikie drug bust the other day. But yeah, the footage wouldn’t have been overwritten yet. I could pull it for you, but maybe later?” He jerked his head toward the door. “I got a heap of customers waiting. And, I dunno . . . maybe I should check with Rabz that it’s okay?”

  Lozza studied the package. Ellie’s name. “Yeah, you do that. I can return in uniform and make it official.”

  The barkeep wavered. “I’m sure Rabz will be fine—I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

  “Okay, locate the footage later, save it for me. I’ll come by and pick it up tomorrow.”

  Lozza jogged back to her car. It would be easy enough to find the address for the Cresswell-Smith developer couple. She tucked the package behind her seat on the floor. Maya watched her.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Just something I forgot.”

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Over one year ago, November 17. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.

  Lozza’s entire day had been swallowed by an ex-con who’d attempted to blow up his wife’s lover’s car with a homemade pipe bomb. It was now dark, and she was still in uniform and exhausted by the time she parked her marked Holden Commodore in a space outside the Puggo.

  Lozza went inside to collect the CCTV footage. Rabz was apparently still in Sydney, so the bartender handed over a drive containing the clip captured by the CCTV camera outside the Puggo.

  “The bikie is on there,” the bartender said. “You can see his tat pretty clearly when he turns his head. It’s a hummingbird on the side of his neck.”

  She thanked the barman, got back into her police vehicle, and drove to the Cresswell-Smith house on the Bonny River. The house was in darkness save for a lone light in a window upstairs. No boat or trailer in the driveway. The big garage door was open. No vehicle inside, either.

  She switched off the ignition and watched the house for a while. The wind blew even harder than it had this morning. She reached for the package she’d picked up from the Puggo last night. As she got out of her vehicle, she saw a shadow move across a lighted window next door. A curtain twitched. Someone was watching.

  In her uniform she walked up to the front door of the Cresswell-Smith home. The door was made of thick wood and carved with an aboriginal-looking design. A thick pane of glass ran down the side. A motion-sensor light flared on as Lozza reached for the doorbell.

  The bell echoed inside. No one came. The place felt empty. She rang the bell again. It ding-donged inside. No answer. She tried once more. Nothing. The upstairs light must have been left on accidentally when the couple went out.

  But as Lozza turned to leave, in her peripheral vision, she caught a fast movement inside the house. Her pulse quickened. She cupped her hand against the glass pane and peered in. Dark. She couldn’t see. She considered using the flashlight on her duty belt but refrained. This wasn’t a crime scene. Apart from her gut instincts, she’d been given no reason to intrude. Yet she felt a whispering sense of unease as she peered into the shadows inside. She was certain she’d seen something move.

  She waited a few moments, rang the bell again. No answer.

  There was nothing more she could do here. She’d return with the package tomorrow because she really wanted to see what was inside now. She planned on hanging around and watching while Ellie opened it.

  Lozza had started back up the driveway when the silhouette of a woman appeared in the lighted window next door again. Lozza stopped and looked up. Wind gusted and dry gum leaves crackled over the paving. An owl hooted softly. The curtain was pulled back and the window opened. A woman leaned out.

  “You looking for the Cresswell-Smiths?” she called out to Lozza. She sounded old, but Lozza couldn’t make out her features. Must be a new tenant in that house, she thought. As far as she knew, the property was used by the owners only during the height of the summer holidays.

  “Do you know where they are?” she called up to the woman.

  “They went fishing with the boat early this morning. The wife came back on her own. Came up the shortcut path from the river. She’s in there—inside the house. The wife.”

  Lozza glanced back at the house and frowned. She studied the lone lighted window upstairs in the Cresswell-Smith home.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Saw her arriving home just after it got dark—about half an hour ago. She looked strange.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was stumbling about near her studio and knocked over the rubbish bin. The metal lid clattered, which is what made me look out the window—thought it might be that possum back. I saw her. In her ball cap and jacket. She startled when I put the lights on and ducked around the side of the studio. I switched off my light to watch from the darkness because I thought it was odd. She went up the garden and into the house via the sliding glass door. It’s still open. You can see from my other window.”

  Nosy woman.

  “So she’s alone in there?”

  “Far as I know. Never saw the husband come back. The truck and boat, neither.”

  Lozza stood there, her gut firing signals to her brain. She’d need to cover her ass if she went onto their property uninvited.

  “Are you worried she might actually be in some kind of trouble?” she called up to the neighbor. If the woman claimed fear for Ellie’s well-being, it would give Lozza more reason to enter the property through that open garage door and go around the back.

  “Her husband hits her.”

  Lozza’s pulse spiked. “What?”

  “I’ve seen it. Through the bottom window between their kitchen and living room. I saw him strike her and try to strangle her once. And last night I heard screaming.”

  “Last night? What time?”

  “About seven, I think.”

  After they’d returned from the beach. I should have done something—but what?

  “You didn’t call triple zero—report it?”

  “Not my business. Each to his own, I say.”

  Lozza swore to herself. “So you think she’s in there and in danger right now?”

  “Maybe. Something is definitely weird.”

  “Thank you.” Lozza entered the garage and came out the side door onto a lawn in darkness. The glass sliding door of the house was indeed open. A sound reached her—a crackle of leaves, then a snap of a twig. Followed by a sudden crashing through the bushes on the vacant lot on the other side of the lawn. Her heart raced.

  Carefully she crouched down and set the package at her feet. Peering intently into the shadows of the vacant lot across the lawn, she unclipped the strap on her holster, freeing up access to the Glock 22 .40-caliber semiautomatic pistol at her hip. She slid her flashlight out of her duty belt, clicked it on, and panned the bushes. She jerked with adrenaline as her beam hit two glowing eyes.

  Bloody possum.

  Lozza drew in a calming breath and scanned the rest of the property. At the bottom of the lawn, behind trees and beyond a small boathouse, the river moved dark and shiny, reflecting a sliver of moon. Hairs prickled up the back of her neck. This place felt wrong. Ominous. She left the package near the garage door and crossed the lawn.

  She stepped onto the patio and called in through the open door, her hand near her sidearm.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  Silence oozed out of the house. Her skin crawled with a sense of something evil.

  “Hello!” she yelled louder.

  Silence.

  Lozza entered the house, every molecule in her body primed. She panned her torch beam across the living room interior. “Anyone home? Ellie Cresswell-Smith, are you here? This is Senior Constable Laurel Bianchi of the Jarrawarra police. I’ve got a package for you.”

  Fr
om outside came a sudden loud crashing in the dry bushes. Too big for a possum. She hurried out and scanned the bushes with her flashlight. A car door slammed on the other side of the vacant lot—Lozza couldn’t see it through the vegetation. An engine started. Tires spun in gravel. The car sped into the night. Her heart hammered.

  Hastily she reentered the house, this time with sharpened purpose.

  Using her flashlight, she found a light switch, clicked it on. Bright light flooded the interior. It was stark inside, all white and oddly sterile. Two empty wine bottles stood on the kitchen counter. One empty wineglass. Lozza crossed the living room into the kitchen area. She saw broken glass on the floor. Red streaks down the side of a cabinet.

  Ellie?

  She moved toward the staircase. There was a small puddle of blood on the bottom stair. Lozza shone her light up the stairwell. Streaks of what looked like blood smeared the stairwell wall.

  She moved fast up the stairs, made straight toward the door where the lone light glowed.

  “Ellie!” she called out as she entered the room.

  Lozza stalled.

  The bed was a tangle of white sheets—blood on them. An empty wine bottle lay sideways on the nightstand. A female’s clothes littered the floor near two suitcases that looked like they had exploded their contents. A trail of blood led to the bathroom. She saw a bare foot sticking out of the bathroom door. Lozza rushed forward.

  Ellie lay naked on the tiles, eyes closed, unmoving, her skin a deathly blue-white color. A pool of blood congealed under her head. Her forehead was gashed open. A pill container lay on its side near her outstretched hand. Pills had scattered across the floor. A mobile phone with a cracked screen lay wedged behind the toilet base. Lozza moved fast toward Ellie. As she crouched down, she registered the words on the pill container in bold black print: CONTROLLED DRUG. HYPNODORM.

  She felt for a pulse as she keyed the radio at her shoulder.

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Lozza panned her flashlight carefully over the dry sand of the unpaved road behind the vacant lot next to the Cresswell-Smith home.

  The paramedics had responded quickly. Ellie was now in the hospital and apparently still in a coma while doctors worked on her. Lozza had bagged the contraband drugs and called in the incident to her station. And while she’d had access to the premises, she’d walked slowly around the Cresswell-Smith home, taking photos of the blood, wine bottles, broken glass. Upon calling it all in to her own station, Lozza had learned that marine rescue had activated a search for the Cresswell-Smiths’ boat.

  Apparently the Abracadabra had logged on with Jarrawarra Bay Marine Rescue at 5:49 that morning. Marine logs indicated that the boat was headed out to the FAD. But the Abracadabra had failed to log off, which had triggered a response.

  There was no sign of the boat. Martin Cresswell-Smith was not responding to radio calls or calls to his mobile.

  He appeared to be missing.

  Lozza stilled as the beam of her flashlight caught something.

  Fresh tire tracks.

  She crouched down and took photos with her phone, the flash bright in the darkness. She looked up and scanned the row of houses opposite the vacant lot as she replayed in her mind the sound of someone crashing through these bushes. The sound of a car door slamming. An engine starting. Tires spinning as a vehicle sped away. She thought of the shadow she’d seen through the glass next to the Cresswell-Smiths’ front door. Her mind went to the blood. Ellie on the bathroom floor. The pills.

  A man exited the front door of a house across from the lot. He wheeled his recycling bin down his driveway. Lozza pushed to her feet and went across the road to talk to him.

  “Evening, sir, I’m Lozza Bianchi with the Jarrawarra police.”

  “Officer,” he said, parking his recycling bin outside his gate. “What’s up?”

  “Your house looks right at that vacant lot—did you happen to see a vehicle parked there earlier?”

  “You mean a brown car?”

  “So you did see a vehicle?”

  “Well, yeah.” Wind gusted and dry gum leaves crackled across his driveway. A bat flitted under the boughs. “It was a Corolla. I saw it because it near killed my cat as it sped out of there. Bloody idiot.”

  Lozza’s pulse quickened. “You sure it was a Corolla?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen it before. Parked down that street a couple of times with a guy just sitting inside like he was watching that developer’s house. Creeped my wife out. She said if we saw it again she was going to call you coppers.”

  “Any chance you saw the rego?”

  “Part of it was covered in dirt. But I did see the letters G-I-N. I think.”

  “Yellow plate?”

  The glow from the streetlight caught his frown as he seemed to cast his mind back. “Nah. Maroon on white, I think.”

  “Queensland?”

  “Could be, but definitely not the black on yellow of a New South Wales rego.”

  Lozza thanked the man. She retrieved the package marked for Ellie, which she’d left on the lawn near the side door of the Cresswell-Smiths’ garage, and got into her Commodore. Lozza checked her watch, then called her mother.

  “Hey, Mom,” she said, “I’m probably going to be home a bit late tonight.”

  “Everything okay, love?” her mother said.

  “Yeah. Something’s come up at work. New case. Missing person. Can I speak to Maya?”

  “She’s in the bath.”

  Lozza smiled and felt a warmth in her heart. “Tell her I’ll tuck her in when I get home, and remind her that her project is due at school tomorrow.”

  Lozza killed the call and drove down to the dark and deserted Bonny River boat ramp. A lone white Toyota Hilux was parked in the lot beside an empty boat trailer.

  She exited her marked vehicle and walked slowly around the ute and trailer. A slice of moon provided a silvery light, and an owl hooted softly.

  If, as the woman next door had said, Ellie and Martin Cresswell-Smith had both gone out to sea in the Abracadabra early this morning, and if the boat had never returned, how had Ellie gotten back home?

  What had happened between 5:49 a.m., when they’d logged on with marine rescue, and 7:40 p.m., when the neighbor had seen Ellie coming up from her studio boathouse?

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Over one year ago, November 18. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.

  “Take a seat, Lozz.”

  Sergeant Jon Ratcliffe—the Jarrawarra station boss—motioned to a vacant chair in front of his desk. He’d called Lozza into his office first thing this morning.

  She hesitated, then took a seat. She had with her the package she’d taken to the Bonny River home yesterday evening. She positioned it on her lap, along with the photograph of the “bikie” taken from the CCTV camera outside the Puggo entrance.

  “Catch me up,” Jon said, leaning forward. His eyes were a dark beetle brown, intense. He was a big and imposing man. He ran a tight ship and held fierce command of his officers, but Lozza knew him to be fair. This was a small town, so she’d associated with him outside of work, too. He had a big family—five kids—and a heart of gold underneath that uniform and gruffness. “Run me through what happened at the Cresswell-Smith home yesterday—why were you there?”

  Lozza moistened her lips and explained it all as best she could. And she was honest. She showed her superior the photo of the bikie. “This is the guy who delivered the package. I saw him ride off on a dirt bike. I recalled the Queensland rego because it didn’t look roadworthy. I ran the registration earlier this morning, given what happened yesterday. It came up stolen.” She paused. “And a neighbor said the vehicle I heard fleeing the Cresswell-Smith home also had a Queensland plate. I don’t know if that’s relevant.”

  He regarded the image of the man, then leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. He eyed her for a moment. “What’s inside the package?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”
<
br />   “Given the circumstances—missing husband, his wife with a history of drug abuse and now in a coma—open it.”

  Her pulse quickened. She set the box on his desk, and Jon handed her a pair of scissors.

  She’d already photographed the package.

  She put on some gloves and carefully cut the tape. She opened the top. Inside were five containers, all with the same label as the one she’d found with Ellie Cresswell-Smith on the bathroom floor. Jon got to his feet and came around the desk.

  “Hypnodorm,” he said. “Controlled meds.”

  “Looks like the same stuff she overdosed on.”

  He glanced down at her. The potential implications hung heavy in the room. She, a cop, had apparently delivered black-market pills to the house of a woman who might yet die of an overdose from the same meds.

  Jon rubbed his chin. “Log those into evidence. Have them tested. Let’s hope this doesn’t become an issue, Lozz,” he said quietly. “At least this isn’t a murder case, which could go high profile. So far it’s just a person missing at sea—a man who could still turn up. Coupled with spousal abuse and a drug-addiction problem.”

  He reseated himself behind his desk. “Canvass the place. And find that bikie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lozza got up, exited the room, and shut Jon’s office door quietly behind her. She felt sick. Her gut told her there was nothing simple about this case.

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Gregg was waiting for her outside in the car park.

  “You drive.” She tossed him the keys. She wasn’t in the mood.

  He caught the keys. “What did the boss man say?”

  “He said to get our arses out there and canvass residents.” She wasn’t inclined to discuss her meeting with her superior with rookie Gregg right now.

  She slid into the passenger seat and reached for her seat belt. Gregg started the vehicle and pulled out of the lot. The day was bright. Hot already. But clouds were building over the northern horizon. He drove toward the headlands. There were several residents who lived there who had telescopes and routinely watched the ocean in the morning. One of them was Willow Larsen. They aimed for her house.