by Wendy James
The other woman, the younger one, she was never hostile, but this one was. I mean she never touched me or anything, but sometimes she’d sort of hiss at me. And the stuff she said. OMG. It was mad. Like once she came in and shouted that I needed to leave him alone, that he was hers, not mine, and I better watch out, she wasn’t going to let a little slut like me screw up her life . . . And this other time she came and told me that her voice was better than mine, that I was singing flat or off-key or something, and that I’d only got the job because I was fucking the drummer. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so scary.
It was almost scarier when she wasn’t nuts. A couple of times she came in and sat beside me and held my hand, and sang to me. All this old stuff from the eighties. And a few times she came in and wanted me to play Trouble with her – you know, that dumb game with the clicker in the middle? Mostly when we played I just drifted off and that was fine, but then she’d lose it completely when I took one of her pieces. I tried not to, but it wasn’t that easy to let her win. You know – it’s one of those games where it’s just dumb luck. Anyway, a couple of times she upended the whole thing and left. Oh, and sometimes she brought me these bowls of Froot Loops to eat. Just dry Froot Loops. I had to pretend to like them, but they were always a bit soggy, like they were stale, and it was hard not to gag.
The two women never came in together. In fact I got the feeling that the older one wasn’t really meant to be there. She would only come in during the daytime. Maybe when the other woman was away? And I never mentioned the mother to the other one. I don’t know why, but it seemed important to keep it a secret.
SUZANNAH: AUGUST 2018
SUZANNAH WELLS, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR THE ABDUCTION and imprisonment of Eleesha Britney Canning. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish, as anything you say will be given in evidence . . .
It was like one of those nightmares, where on some level you’re fully aware that you’re caught in a dream, and that what’s happening is completely ludicrous, but you can’t work out how to stop it, how to wake yourself up.
Parts of it were bizarrely familiar: the phrase itself – ‘you are under arrest’; the modulations of the detective’s voice; the way the world wobbled around me – contracting, expanding, contracting again, as I tried to make some sense of what was happening. All of this, every word, every action, felt as if I was inside a living cliché. Those moments were just as I would have imagined them, had I been playing the scene in a film, acting the part of a woman unfairly accused.
But other moments were closer to high farce. There I was, trying hard to appear calm, but worrying about packing an overnight bag, as if I was heading off on a holiday, before being bowled over by a wave of nausea and running off to vomit. There was the panicked discussion about what to do about Mary, the two brothers arguing about whether Chip should come with me to the station or stay home with her, to give me one less thing to worry about. Then there was Mary herself, who decided that Hal was actually an old boyfriend from her LA days, and that he owed her forty dollars for some gear he stole, and was only appeased when Chip promised her an ice cream cone. (Sprinkles, too?)
The police observed all this patiently and politely and then informed us that although they weren’t arresting her, they did want Mary to come in for questioning. Then Hal was arguing angrily about the legality of interviewing someone who was so obviously psychologically impaired.
And then we were back to the crime-show clichés again: the slow walk across the icy gravel to the police car (unhandcuffed, thank God); Constable Moorhouse standing too close, her gloved fingers clamped on my elbow, her hand pressing gently on the top of my head as she guided me into the back seat, leaning over me, buckling me in as carefully as she would a small child.
There was the recorded interview in the dingy room, the revelatory production of all the impossible, crazily damning evidence. Hal sitting beside me, interjecting periodically. This scene felt entirely scripted, even more so when I realised there was a camera, that a transcript of the conversation would be typed up, and that eventually the entire performance would be made available, part of the public record, evidence to be presented in court.
Like all theatre, it was an ensemble effort, but individual performances varied. Inspector Stratford’s delivery was rather wooden, as if he’d learned his lines but hadn’t been able to inject any feeling.
My own act left a great deal to be desired. My emotional range was limited – there was very little nuance in my approach. If I’d had more time to prepare perhaps there’d have been greater tonal variation, but as it was I was invariably shrill, barely managing to keep the panic under control. The one saving grace was that later, I would only have to read through the transcript and not watch a rerun, for without a doubt, this was the worst performance of my career.
Only Hal’s execution was halfway decent. He gave a fabulous impression of a quick-witted, if somewhat cynical defence lawyer, and his dramatic timing was spot on: he never hesitated, didn’t overdo the emotion; there were even moments of sly humour.
‘Before you go any further,’ he began, his expression severe, his voice perhaps a little too loud, forceful without being aggressive, ‘I’d like to make it clear that my client, Ms Wells, denies all the charges that have been made against her, and that furthermore, she finds these allegations ludicrous.’
‘Thank you, Mr Gascoyne.’ Stratford’s manner was deliberately calm. ‘Your comments have been noted. Now, Ms Wells, you have told us that you’ve never met the victim?’
Hal interrupted before I had an opportunity to speak.
‘As far as she knows, detective. As we’ve already pointed out, Ellie Canning grew up in an area close to where Ms Wells herself lived only a few years ago, so it’s entirely possible that Ms Wells has had some kind of contact with Miss Canning previously, without any recollection of having done so.’
‘Thank you, Mr Gascoyne. If I can continue? Ms Wells, you have told us that you’ve never met Miss Canning, and that the first time you heard anything of her situation was through news reports approximately a week ago?’
I glanced at Hal. He nodded. ‘That’s—’ I faltered, cleared my throat. ‘Yes, That’s right. I can’t be a hundred per cent, but as far as I know I’ve never met her. Her name wasn’t at all familiar.’
‘So you’re certain she’s never, to your knowledge, been in your house, or on your Wash Road property during the time you’ve lived there?’
‘No. I mean, I don’t know for certain. It’s possible she could have been on my property at some point without my knowing about it, I guess.’
‘But you yourself have no knowledge of her having been there?’
‘No, of course I don’t.’
Stratford paused for a moment, looked through his papers.
‘Did you make a trip to Sydney on Saturday, July seventh, Ms Wells?’
I thought back. ‘If that was the first day of the school holidays, then yes.’
‘Can I ask what the purpose of that visit was?’
‘I went down for the matinee of a play I’ve been wanting to see. I was meant to meet up with an old teaching friend, Laura Huber. It’s a tradition. We’ve been going to the theatre at the end of each school term for years, and we’d decided to keep doing it even though I’d moved. We met up after first term, in the April holidays, but this time she was sick and couldn’t go. I’d paid for the tickets, and I was really looking forward to it, so I decided to go down anyway. I’m sure I still have the tickets in an email if you want to see them.’
‘What did you do after the show?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you go elsewhere? Meet anyone? Or go straight home?’
‘I . . . I went to DJs and had a quick look round. I think I got some chocolates at Haigh’s. And I grabbed a cup of coffee. By then it was already pretty late, so I got going.’
‘What time was that?’
‘How is this relevant, detective?’
/>
‘Can you answer the question, please?’
‘It was . . . around four o’clock. Four-thirty, maybe.’
‘And what time did you get back?’
‘I don’t know. It was probably around seven. Just before.’
‘And you went straight to your home, you didn’t call in anywhere else first?’
‘No. Sally O’Halloran was here looking after Mary. She needed to go home.’
‘And what happened when you arrived?’
‘I paid Sally and she left.’
‘Was it dark when Miss O’Halloran left?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where did you park your car?’
‘Where did I park? I don’t rem— oh, probably over near the garage. Sally would have pulled up right outside the house. She’s always running late . . .’
‘So she wouldn’t have had any reason to go past your car when she left?’
‘What has my car got to do with anything?’ I looked at Hal, confused.
Hal folded his arms. ‘Come on, detective. Get to the point.’
Stratford ignored him. He gestured to a uniformed officer, who brought over one of the pictures they’d taken the day before and held it up in front of me.
Stratford spoke directly to the camera. ‘For the record, I am now showing Ms Wells a painting taken from a basement room of her home.’ He turned back to me.
‘This painting was taken from your downstairs storeroom during our search yesterday, Ms Wells. It has been identified by Ellie Canning as identical to one hanging in the bedroom in which she was held. The painting shows the figure of a heavily pregnant woman lying on a lounge. Is there anything you wish to tell me about this?’
Was there anything I wished to tell him? I looked at Hal, who nodded.
‘I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not sure what you want me to tell you. It’s not a painting, actually, just an old poster print that I had framed.’
‘It’s quite an unusual painting, Ms Wells. It’s certainly not one I’ve seen before.’
‘But that doesn’t mean . . . I’m sure there are heaps of them around. It’s pretty well known.’
He nodded to the officer, who leaned the painting against the wall. Stratford picked up a plastic bag from a pile on the chair beside him.
‘I am now going to show you Exhibit B, which is a pair of red and black lace underpants. These were also seized during the search of your premises last night.’ Stratford held the bag up delicately. ‘What can you tell me about these?’
‘I can’t tell you anything. I’ve never seen them before. I have no idea why they would be there. They’re not Mary’s either. Maybe they were left by someone else?’
‘And who might that someone else be? Do you have any ideas about this, Ms Wells?’
Hal sighed. ‘She’s said she doesn’t recognise them, Stratford. Can you make your point?’
‘Miss Canning claims that these items resemble undergarments belonging to her, and says that they were taken from her by the woman who abducted her, along with other items of her clothing. Do you have any response to this, Ms Wells?’
I shook my head. What was there to say?
‘If you could actually speak for the purposes of the recording, Ms Wells. I asked if you have any response to this?’
‘No. No, I have no response.’
‘I am now going to show you further items of clothing: these are Exhibits C and D.’ He took a pale pink silk shirt with black edging, and matching long pants, from another bag.
‘Can you tell me anything about these items, Ms Wells? For the record I am showing Ms Wells a pair of pink pyjamas, size twelve.’
Those I recognised. ‘Oh. Yes! They’re Mary’s favourite pyjamas. She calls them her Chanel pyjamas because they look like—’
Hal was glaring at me. I paused, took a breath. ‘Did you take these too? Were they in the downstairs room? I haven’t been able to find them for weeks, but I don’t know why they’d be down in the basement.’
‘These are the clothes that Ellie Canning was wearing when she was found.’
‘She was wearing them? Mary’s pyjamas. But how could she—’
‘That doesn’t mean anything, detective,’ Hal said. ‘Clothes are mass-produced.’
Stratford ignored him, again asking me if I would like to say anything.
I still didn’t know what he wanted me to say. The pyjamas did look exactly like Mary’s, and they were the same size. But if they were hers, I had no idea how the girl came to be wearing them.
‘Perhaps someone stole them from my washing line,’ I offered. ‘Or maybe they got muddled up in a charity-shop bag?’ I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a bag to a charity store, but it seemed worth suggesting.
Stratford held up a black plastic hairbrush. ‘This hairbrush is Exhibit E. Does this belong to you, Ms Wells?’
‘I can’t be sure, but if it’s the one you took last night, I suppose so. It certainly looks like one of mine.’
‘I am now going to show you Exhibit F.’ He picked up a folder. ‘This document outlines the results of a DNA test from hair that was taken from this hairbrush.’ He slid the folder across the table. ‘I’ll give you a moment to read over it.’
I tried to make sense of the printed matter, but the writing blurred before my eyes. Who knew what it said? I gave up, passed it over to Hal and waited expectantly.
‘As you can see, some of the hair on this brush matches the DNA of hair taken from Ellie Canning. You’ll see that DNA taken from Exhibit B – the underwear – also matches that of Miss Canning. Can you think of any reason why that might be so, Ms Wells?’
I didn’t understand any of this. It made no sense at all. I shook my head. My voice was barely a squeak. ‘No.’
‘I am now going to show you an infant’s drinking cup which was taken from your basement room. Does this cup belong to you, Ms Wells?’
‘Yes. But as I said when you took it, I don’t even understand where you found it. It was packed away.’
‘If you look at the report, you’ll see that Ellie Canning’s DNA was also found on the lid of this cup. We also found benzodiazepine residue inside the cup. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about these facts, Ms Wells?’
‘But that’s impossible. That was my daughter’s cup. And I certainly never gave her any sort of drug in it.’
Stratford’s back stiffened. His eyes narrowed. ‘Your daughter? You haven’t mentioned that you have a daughter. She doesn’t live with you?’
‘No.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She . . .’ I took a breath, started again. ‘She died when she was a baby. Almost sixteen years ago.’
‘I see’. He paused for a long moment, as if considering this new information. ‘And can you tell me about the circumstances of your daughter’s death?’
Hal interjected, his voice harsh. ‘I really don’t see how that’s in any way relevant to the Canning girl’s allegations, and as you can see, it’s distressing to my client.’
‘It’s not up to you to decide what’s relevant, Mr Gascoyne. You know that as well as I do. I’m sorry it’s distressing, Ms Wells, but I need to ask, how did your daughter die?’
‘It was cot death.’ I didn’t elaborate.
‘And your daughter’s father? Where is he now?’
‘Stephen. We . . . split not long after her death. He’s remarried and was living somewhere in Western Australia, last I heard.’
‘And your daughter would be how old now?’
‘She’d be sixteen.’
‘So a similar age to Ellie Canning?’
‘Oh, come on!’ Hal’s outrage seemed genuine. ‘What’s that got to do with it? Are you suggesting that my client kidnapped Canning to somehow replace her daughter? That’s absurd.’
‘Ms Wells, have you ever attempted to get pregnant since the sad loss of your daughter?’
‘What? This is a completely outrageous question, detective. Suzannah, you do
n’t have to answer that.’
‘No, it’s okay, Hal.’ I held up a hand, suddenly calm. I didn’t understand why he was asking, but there was nothing to hide. ‘No, I haven’t tried to get pregnant since my daughter died, detective. I haven’t really had any long-term relationships since that time. And I wasn’t planning to now. I’d never even thought it was possible. But why do you want to know?’
After the interview, the paperwork, the fingerprinting, the giving up of personal effects, I was led into a holding cell to await the afternoon bail hearing. An egg and lettuce sandwich was provided for lunch, along with a cup of watery lukewarm instant coffee (which I had imagined might be marginally better than the watery lukewarm tea-bag tea on offer). In the late afternoon, I was conducted to court by Stratford and another officer. The court house was across the road from the station, but the journey for offenders was underground, and involved a long walk down a dim subterranean corridor. I wore handcuffs this time, and they were heavy and uncomfortable, chafing against my wrists. I was taken, not to the court itself, but into a small, brightly lit office somewhere in the depths of the court complex, where Hal was already waiting, along with the magistrate and a man who was introduced as the prosecutor. The prosecutor was the father of one of the girls in my HSC drama class, and we’d had several friendly conversations, but there was no indication that he recalled this, or that we’d ever met before. The business of whether I was to be released on bail was briskly conducted by the four men without any input from me.
Despite being at the centre of it all, I was somehow entirely peripheral. The magistrate – thin, bearded, impassive – gave me a brief once-over before agreeing with Hal that I hardly appeared to be any sort of a flight risk – a pregnant middle-aged school teacher with an elderly mother to take care of – regardless of my alleged crimes.
The magistrate made his decision quickly, bail was set at $10,000 and a committal would be scheduled at a later date. I was conducted (no handcuffs this time) back along the corridor to the station, and after another hour or so of bureaucratic wrangling, released back into the real world.
