In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  Lozza clicked the back of her pen in and out. “Okay, let’s go back to that day Martin took you down the channel. Did you moor the boat somewhere?”

  “Next to a dock. There was a path from the dock to an abandoned house. He told me that. We had lunch in the boat, and I passed out, then woke up in the bottom of the boat when it was getting dark. He was furious and he had protest banners which he said he’d found in the old house. He said the ‘greenies’ had been on our private property.” She glanced at the camera again. Lozza had a sense Ellie was playing to it. Perhaps she was playing all of them. Rabz’s words sifted into her mind.

  “That kind of woman can be the most dangerous when betrayed or wronged, because you least expect it. They can be deadly.”

  “Up until that point I’d never seen Martin so furious. He said if he got his hands on those greenies, he’d . . .” Ellie paled as she appeared to recall something. She cleared her throat. “He said he’d cut ‘those fuckers’ with a knife, stick his gaff in them, and feed them to the muddies.”

  Gregg and Lozza stared at her. The air in the room grew thick. An invisible energy crackled around them. Very quietly, Lozza said, “You remember this, yet you can’t recall if you might have gone along that trail and into the old farmhouse with Martin?”

  Ellie swallowed. “I not only passed out, I blacked out, Detective. With my blackouts I can be doing things, but I don’t know what I did. I have no recall because the events that occurred during a blackout-drunk period are not encoded into memories in my brain. My doctor told me this once. I blacked out on the boat, then I woke up on the bottom. That’s all I know. And that’s when Martin said those things. It shocked me . . . to think that the man I’d married had turned so mean. I’d not until that point in our relationship witnessed this very, very ugly side to Martin. He was one man back home in Canada, and another man entirely in Australia. It was like he’d hooked me, and he no longer had to pretend.”

  “Your doctor told you this about the blackouts?” Gregg asked.

  “My therapist.”

  “Why were you seeing a therapist?” Lozza asked.

  “I could tell you that’s personal, and privileged. I could also tell you it was because my daughter drowned when she was three years old, and I couldn’t bear the grief. It was killing me, and I was coping in all the wrong ways.” Her mouth tightened and her eyes turned shiny. “Look, I know you’re going to go digging up my entire life and you’re going to find out all the horrible things about me that are going to continue dogging me for the rest of my life, like how I was institutionalized for a while. So there you have it. Grief, loss, can all but kill you. It can drive you mad. But I did not kill my husband, Detectives, and I’d like to leave now.”

  Lozza regarded Ellie for a moment, thinking of something else Rabz had said.

  “Do you know the police in Hawaii thought she’d drowned her three-year-old daughter in the sea at Waimea Bay? Ellie took her out into waves that were too big.”

  “Ellie.” Lozza leaned forward. “Can we go back to the clothes you said you were wearing when you first went out on the Abracadabra—the clothes that had your blood and Martin’s blood on them. You said you left them in your garage?”

  She shifted in her chair and wiped her nose. “Yes.”

  “And you don’t know how that jacket and cap ended up at Agnes Basin?”

  “No. I left them in the garage with the cargo pants and shoes.”

  Lozza made a mental note to check for the shoes and pants.

  “And I don’t know what happened to them or how they got to Agnes.”

  Lozza rubbed her chin. “So the blood on the—”

  “It’s mine. And Martin’s. I told you.” The hot spots on her cheeks deepened. The atmosphere in the room was getting closer, warmer. Edgier.

  Lozza said, “So there is a chance that you visited the abandoned house shortly after your arrival in Jarrawarra—you just don’t remember it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I might have. I don’t know. I can’t recall either way, but it’s possible.”

  Lozza cursed to herself. Ellie had just driven a bus through any potential case to be made against her so far. If she’d been at the murder scene—inside that old house—she could claim that any DNA or fingerprints or hair or fiber evidence found at the scene might have come from an earlier time. Or from the earlier boating incident with the knife. She had a defense.

  Lozza pushed two more photos toward her—the fishing knife and gaff marked with the boat’s name.

  “Do you recognize these?”

  Ellie drew them closer. “Yes, that’s the knife I used to cut Martin free of the fishing line when he got foul-hooked. And that’s the gaff I handed to him.”

  “So you definitely touched this knife and gaff.”

  “Yes, I told you. While I was cutting the line from Martin’s rod, the boat tilted and I slipped and cut his arm, plus the back of my hand.”

  “How about this—do you recognize this?” Lozza showed Ellie another crime scene photo.

  “That looks like the rope from the Abracadabra. It’s the same colors as the bowline Martin made me hold on the day we went out. It burned my hands.”

  Lozza inhaled deeply. This meant any DNA that showed up on the ropes from the crime scene that was a match to Ellie could also be argued to have come from earlier incidents. Crown prosecutors would not be happy. Lozza eyed her, and the sinister sensation of being played intensified. Was this woman a deception artist herself? Like she claimed her husband was? Could it be wildly possible she’d used that first day out on the boat to set up a scenario that would later undermine any police evidence found in a crime? Lozza was getting a feeling that maybe this was less an interview with Ellie Cresswell-Smith than it was Ellie laying out a future defense on the record. An inkier thought struck Lozza—could Ellie have set out to swim with her and Maya in the sea that day? Could she have wanted for some reason for Lozza to see her bruises and meet her husband and sympathize? Could that have been part of some ploy, too?

  Lozza showed Ellie the photo of the bald man with the neck tat again. Once more Ellie denied knowing anything about him or any package with drugs.

  “I’d like to leave now,” she said.

  “Just a few more questions,” Lozza said. “Who was the PI you hired to take photos of your husband and Bodie Rabinovitch?”

  “Look, I’m really tired. I’m not feeling well. I’d like to go and buy a plane ticket and go home.” She started to push her chair back.

  “Please stay seated, Ellie.”

  “You can’t force me, Lozza. I know my rights. If you want to hold me, if you want to ask any more questions, you’re going to have to arrest me and go through my lawyers. I’ve been as cooperative as I can, and I’m in a very bad place with the mess Martin has left me. I need to go home to Canada and to meet with my legal team there.”

  Lozza sucked in a deep, long breath of air, assessing her. “Fine.”

  “Fine what?”

  “Fine. Go.”

  Ellie hesitated, then got up and went to the door. She reached for the handle, paused, turned back to face Lozza and Gregg. She wavered, then said, “There was a car following us. I noticed it soon after I arrived in Jarrawarra.”

  Lozza and Gregg exchanged a glance. “What kind of car?” Lozza asked.

  “A brown Toyota Corolla,” Ellie said. “It has a dent in the back and a Queensland plate. I remember the last three letters of the plate because they spell GIN, like the drink.”

  Lozza’s heart sped up. “You certain it was a Queensland rego?”

  “Yes. I even pointed the car out to Martin. He looked really worried when he saw it.”

  “Did he know who was in the car?”

  “No. He suggested it was a common model and color, and said it was probably different cars I was seeing. But I could tell he was worried about it.” She then stepped out the door and left.

  On impulse Lozza followed her out into the street.


  “Ellie?” she called out.

  The woman turned. Sunlight caught the shine in her dark waist-length hair.

  Lozza went up to her and handed Ellie her card. Quietly she said, “If any more memory returns, please call me. Nothing is too small or too insignificant.”

  Ellie eyed her. The memory of their time in the waves shimmered between them. Seemingly unsure, Ellie glanced again at the card.

  “I can see you’re scared, Ellie. I know Martin hurt you. I understand the confusion and shame around substance abuse.”

  Ellie’s big blue eyes watered, and Lozza felt she was going to say something. But she stopped. This woman was either very, very alone or very smart and dangerous. Lozza wanted to give her an opening to reach out. In whatever way. Good-cop/bad-cop–style—and right now she was playing good cop.

  “If you do see that Corolla again, let me know. Okay?”

  Ellie nodded, turned, and walked down the road.

  Lozza watched until Ellie disappeared around the corner at the end of the street.

  She turned to go back into the station but stalled. She looked up. Corneil stood in the window. Watching.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  I entered our house followed by Willow, who’d brought me home from the travel agency where I’d purchased another ticket home. I’d called Willow from there. After being grilled by the police and still feeling so weak, I’d suddenly felt so alone, scared. I needed her company. My flight left in two days. I had to cope until then. The cops had told me I could return to my house—it was not a crime scene. They’d photographed everything, and they’d taken Martin’s computers and the files and papers from his cabinet. His office was a mess, drawers still open, things scattered all over the floor.

  I stopped and stared, my heart beating fast.

  The lock on his office door had been broken. I felt bile rise up the back of my throat. At least I’d made copies of everything. I walked slowly, dazedly, into the living room and sat down.

  “Can I get you something to drink, eat?” asked Willow as she set her purse on the kitchen counter near where Martin had raped me. Concern creased her brow.

  “Water, thanks.”

  She brought me a glass. I sipped with a shaky hand, odd and indistinct, disjointed memories slicing through my brain.

  “I can stay awhile,” Willow said. “I can stay overnight—stay until you leave, if you like?”

  I stilled as I saw the blank space on the wall.

  “The clock.”

  “What?”

  “They took the clock.” I set my glass down and came to my feet, my heart racing. I made for the sliding glass door.

  “Ellie? Where are you going?”

  I yanked open the door and marched over the lawn toward my studio. Willow hurried after me.

  I entered the studio and stilled.

  The clock was gone from here, too. I spun to face her.

  “Why would the police take the wall clocks?”

  “I . . . I have no idea.”

  “There was a clock there.” I pointed. “It was exactly the same design as the clock in the living room. Both gone.”

  Willow stared at me like I was going mad.

  My mouth turned dry. I scanned the rest of the room, and froze. They’d also taken the framed photo of me and Dana. The one that was shot the night I met Martin.

  I exited the studio and strode back up the lawn, sweat breaking out on my skin.

  Willow hurried after me. “Ellie! Just calm down. And then when—”

  I whirled to face her. “Calm down? My husband has been brutally murdered and I seem to be a suspect. And I can’t recall anything. Why should I calm down, Willow, why?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I need you to leave. Please. Thank you for fetching me, for all your help. I truly appreciate it. But I need to be alone now.”

  She wavered, unsure. “Okay . . . okay.” She went to retrieve her purse, hesitated. “If you need me, I’m just a call away, all right?”

  I nodded, shaking inside, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

  Willow went to the door. I waited until she was gone, then retrieved Lozza’s card. It displayed her work phone number and a mobile number. I dialed her mobile.

  It rang once.

  “Bianchi.”

  “It’s Ellie. Why did you guys take my clocks and that framed photograph from my studio?”

  Lozza told me to hold while she checked. I paced up and down, up and down, horrible shards of memories slicing into me. Martin grabbing my hair. Kicking me. Striking me . . .

  “Ellie?”

  I tensed. “I’m here.”

  “Our logs indicate no clocks or framed photos were taken from your house. The warrant covered only computer equipment, files, communications devices.”

  I hung up and stared at the wall where the clock had been, blood thudding in my ears.

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Over one year ago, November 20. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.

  Lozza tossed and turned in her bed. She’d thrown her windows open wide, and outside, the sea heaved and sighed under the moon. She rented a house on the beach on the less tony side of the Bonny River. It was run-down, made of weatherboard, had peeling paint, and was freezing in the winter. But it had a suite for her mother, and having her mom come live with her in Jarrawarra had been a big part of the reason Lozza had been cleared to adopt Maya. The arrangement worked for Lozza’s mom, too. She’d been widowed, and helping with Maya had given her a new lease on life.

  Lozza punched a pillow and lay back. The heat was humid, thick. She’d come home late and had an early start tomorrow, but her brain wouldn’t stop churning the details of the case. Her thoughts turned to Ellie and what it must’ve been like to lose her daughter. She thought of Maya’s mother, killed by Maya’s abusive father. And how Lozza herself had lost it when she’d tried to take him into custody while Maya—who’d been three years old, like Ellie’s daughter—had cowered under the bed.

  Lozza’s violent reaction that day had almost cost her everything.

  But she’d fought for Maya when no one else had wanted the kid. And when Maya’s father had died in prison, Lozza had gained everything.

  She tossed onto her side. The red glow of the numbers on her alarm clock read 3:25 a.m. She bashed her pillow into shape again. Nothing about the case was making sense.

  Her mobile rang. Lozza glanced at the clock again. It was 3:50 a.m. She reached for her phone and connected the call.

  “Lozza? It’s Ellie.”

  She sat up abruptly in the dark. “Ellie?”

  “I . . . I need help—I need to talk to you.”

  “Now? Do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s urgent. It’s about that framed photo that went missing.”

  Lozza frowned and glanced at the clock again. “Are you on medication, Ellie? Have you been consuming alcohol?”

  “Damnit, Lozza, listen to me. I phoned Dana, my friend in Vancouver. She was in that photo with me. Something about it had been bugging me before it vanished. And when it disappeared, it really started to eat at me. So I phoned Dana—it’s almost eleven a.m. in Vancouver now, but still yesterday—” Lozza could hear movement as Ellie spoke, a noise like a printer in action. A rustling of paper. “I asked Dana if she still had digital copies on her phone.” More noise. Printing again? “She did. More than one. She just sent them to me, and—”

  Silence.

  “Ellie?”

  “Shit,” Ellie whispered. “Oh shit!” Lozza heard movement. “I . . . there’s a car outside. I . . .”

  Lozza heard noises. Ellie moving around her house?

  She swung her feet over the side of the bed and reached for her pants.

  “Oh God . . . Help, I need help! I need to get out of—” Lozza heard the phone drop with a clatter, then a scream followed by a crash and a horribly gut-sickening thump—like the sound of a body slamming into a wall. Adrenaline speared t
hrough her blood. Lozza tugged up her pants. She was already wearing a T-shirt. She hurried to the door with the phone pressed to her ear. “Where are you, Ellie? What’s going on?”

  More thumping. Glass shattering. Muffled sounds.

  Lozza found shoes, took her weapon from the safe, checked and loaded it, stuffed it into a holster, and hurried out to her vehicle with the phone still to her ear. She heard nothing more.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat, she fired up her engine, put the phone on speaker, and set it in the cup holder. She drove fast for the bridge that would take her over the river. From there she’d cut down to Bonny River Drive. A kangaroo, eyes bright, stopped dead in the middle of the road. She swerved, heart hammering. She had no idea if Ellie had called from her home, but guessed she had because of the printer noises. Perhaps she was back on meds and had passed out. But it had sounded a lot worse.

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  Now, February. Supreme Court, New South Wales.

  A woman with thick auburn hair tumbling to her shoulders takes the stand.

  I know very well who she is.

  Her testimony will turn jurors against me. My heart beats fast. Lorrington’s team looks tense. This woman is the reason the police came to my door in riot gear. Lorrington is going to have to work hard to swing this back around.

  “Can you state your full name and place of residence for the court?” asks Ms. Konikova, the birdlike Crown prosecutor.

  “Dana Bainbridge. I live in Vancouver, BC, in Canada.”

  The jurors shift in their seats. Some sit up straighter. In my peripheral vision I see the same happen in the court gallery. Everyone is prepped for a climax. All are fully vested in the battle of these narratives. They’re ready for an end.

  “Ms. Bainbridge,” says Konikova, “Do you recall receiving a phone call around eleven a.m. Vancouver time on November nineteen just over a year ago?”