‘Did she use email?’
‘Yes, with her Internet friends. I encouraged it. I couldn’t write a proper letter when I was her age. I was proud of her.’
If the woman had known anything at all about kids’ activities on the Internet, Stevie thought, she would have realised the letters were probably far from proper.
‘Why’s everyone so caught up over the computer, anyway?’ Stella had queried.
‘We think it might have been taken by her abductor to cover his tracks.’
‘You mean he took it when he grabbed her? But why would he do that?’
‘This man is probably a cyber predator, a paedophile who picks up children through the Internet and tricks them into meeting him. I doubt he came here to take the computer. A common ploy is to get the child to bring their laptop, if they have one, to the meetings. In that way they can destroy the computer and any evidence of their activities.’
At that point Stella had buried her face in her hands. ‘I never knew any of this. She was always so good. So quiet.’
Stevie heard her own mother’s voice across the chasm of the years: ‘You’re too quiet, you’re up to something.’ And usually they were, either putting laxatives in the shearers’ tea or hiding the hand-reared calf from their father at market time. There were no computers then, no Internet chat rooms and no mobile phones.
Stevie was thirty-five years old, but her childhood could have been a century ago.
7
Thursday
Her parents were at it again; Emma Breightling heard them yelling at each other in the kitchen. She padded through her bedroom door, still in her nightie, and peered down into the kitchen from behind the wrought iron banister, wondering what it was about this time. Three guesses: money, money or maybe even money; Emma wasn’t usually wrong. She looked down at her mother’s head and saw the gleam of scalp shining through the dark sculptured hair. Miranda would be mortified if she knew how exposed and vulnerable—how old—she seemed from this height.
Emma took hold of the decorative balustrade on the mezzanine with both hands and wiggled at it. The ornamental railings were loosening nicely in their concrete beds and would soon be more of a danger than a safety feature. God help the stumbling drunk who might one day lean upon it for support. Emma smiled to herself and continued to watch Miranda.
Her mother hit the side of the table with the rolled up morning paper, making the Spode cups rattle in their saucers, the milk shiver in the matching jug. Emma’s father flinched but said nothing. Emma could imagine the little muscle in his jaw twitching, one beat short of a facial tic. It was as if there was something lurking there just under his skin, bursting to get out. He reached for a paper napkin and placed it under his cup to absorb the slops.
‘You’ve got to do something, Christopher! I can’t take much more of this—this not knowing. Have you any idea what it’s doing to me?’
‘Miranda, I told you, everything’s fine. It was just a temporary cash flow problem; we’re back on track now.’
Compared to his wife’s hysterical shriek, her father’s voice sounded calm and slow, though Emma could tell by the twitch and by the clenching and unclenching of his fist on the table, how close he was to snapping.
‘Aidan said—’
‘You shouldn’t be listening to Aidan,’ Christopher interrupted.
‘He said we might have to sell the house.’
‘That stupid nouveau prick doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Just leave everything to me, it’s going to be fine.’
‘That’s no way to speak of your oldest friend,’ Miranda pouted. ‘And our accountant—if anyone should know, he should.’
‘Your oldest friend, Miranda; not mine.’
Christopher said no more, refusing to be drawn into a conversation about Aidan Stoppard. Funny, he never listened to Emma either, when she tried to tell him what her godfather was really like; it seemed he never listened to either of them any more.
Miranda bided her time, drumming her long fingernails on the breakfast table, clicking them like metal balls on strings. Emma knew the signs; her mother was dredging for something else to hurl at her husband.
At last she seemed to find it. ‘That man was hanging around outside the agency again the other night,’ Miranda said. ‘I told you to do something about him. I’ve not been sleeping; my nerves are shot to pieces. You’ll have to give me another prescription. Imagine if he tried to do something to one of the girls?’
Emma had to stop herself from laughing out loud; Miranda was even dumber than she thought. You’d think that after fifteen years of marriage, she would have realised the only thing that got Christopher Breightling flustered was money; money and Aidan Stoppard, which were one and the same thing really.
‘When was it you saw this man?’ Christopher asked calmly.
Miranda lifted her chin. ‘Monday.’
He took several measured sips of coffee before answering her. ‘I spoke to him weeks ago, I told you that.’
‘Well it can’t have done much good, whatever you said. He was hanging around outside the agency again, ogling the girls, just like before. And you’re off to your stupid conference in Queensland this afternoon. What do I do if he comes back?’
‘I’ll only be away a couple of days. Get Julian to talk to him if you’re worried.’
‘Huh, some help he is.’
‘Are you sure it was the same man? What did he look like?’
‘It was dark, so I couldn’t see his face but he was smallish, and thin, and he was wearing a hooded windcheater.’
Christopher paused with the coffee cup halfway to his lips. For a moment he appeared to stare right through Miranda. Then he gave a slight shrug. ‘There are always men hanging around waiting to get a glimpse of the girls, and he sounds like a different man to me. I’m sure the one I spoke to won’t be coming back.’ After some deliberation he said, ‘Maybe you should just go to the police.’
Emma was sure she saw the hint of a smile on his face—yay, one for the old man at last. After Miranda’s last disastrous contact with the police, he’d have to know she wouldn’t dream of involving them in this.
Emma turned back into her room, stopping when she reached her desk to gaze at the photo on the pin up board. The picture showed a small dark-skinned boy standing in front of a mud shack, grinning. His name was Josef, he lived in Morocco and he was her World Vision sponsorship child. She rummaged in her school bag and plopped yesterday’s lunch money in the tin under the photo. Then she kissed her finger and tapped the small boy’s face with it. Every morning Christopher gave her money to buy lunch and every morning she put it in her tin and made her own lunch after he’d left for work.
She selected her wardrobe for the day, an old pair of school track pants with torn knees and saggy waistband. The other girls would doubtless be wearing their sexy pleated sports skirts. This was the thing she liked the most about her state school, the compulsory school uniforms—not.
In her pink en-suite bathroom, designed by her mother to keep her out of hers, she brushed her long dark hair one hundred times. Then she bent over and mussed it all up again. Satisfied with the unkempt look, she went downstairs to make some toast for breakfast, planning on taking it back up to her room to eat as she scanned her morning’s email.
The tension between her parents had eased by the time she joined them in the large open plan kitchen which merged into the family area. Her father was crunching cereal, her mother reading the newspaper horoscope.
‘Huh,’ Miranda scoffed as she read her stars aloud. ‘A work colleague might surprise you.’ Maybe it means Julian will at last come up with the photos for the catalogue. God know, he’s had the proofs for weeks. I can’t stall Hartley Macs for much longer. Before we know it, they’ll be hassling me for the autumn shots.’
‘Sack him,’ Christopher said dispassionately. ‘He’s already got you into enough trouble as it is.’
‘That’s easier said than done. Good photog
raphers are almost impossible to find these days.’
‘Do you need a lift to work?’
‘No, I’m fine; Julian’s picking me up. Or so he said.’ She glanced at the watch on her wrist. ‘He’s late of course. I can’t believe how long the panel beaters are taking with my car. It was only the smallest of dents.’
Miranda rattled the newspaper and Emma caught a glimpse of the headlines, something about a missing girl. The few words she read made her breath jam in her chest. She cocked her head and tried unsuccessfully to peer at the front of the paper as it quivered in her mother’s hands above her breakfast grapefruit.
Then the phone rang.
‘Always at meal times, guaranteed,’ Christopher grumbled as he picked up the phone, quickly switching to the unctuous cheer of his bedside manner. Emma had once overheard one of his professional colleagues saying that despite what he might once have been, these days Christopher Breightling had the bedside manner of a vet. Emma didn’t understand the comment; vets were usually nice.
He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, certainly, here she is.’ He held the phone out to Emma without looking at her, his attention already back on his breakfast.
‘Hello Emma, my name’s Stephanie Hooper,’ the voice on the end of the phone said. ‘I live quite close to you in Hill View Terrace. I’ve been speaking to Mrs Carlyle—apparently you babysit her twins when she goes shopping.’
‘Uh, yes, that’s right,’ Emma said.
‘Mrs Carlyle is very impressed with you and thought you might be looking for more babysitting work. I was wondering if you might be interested in doing some after-school care for me? I have a six year old daughter who goes to your school. It would be a case of walking her home from school and staying with her until her father or I get home. It’ll be regular for a week or so until my mother comes back from holiday, then just occasionally after that. I’m a police officer, so my work hours are a bit erratic.’
‘I remember you, you’re the lady who talked to us at school the other day.’
‘That’s right.’
Emma could hear the smile in the woman’s voice. ‘Cool.’ ‘You’d better check with your parents then, make sure it’s okay.’
‘Sure.’ Emma put her hand over the receiver and left it there for a moment. Her mother got up from the table to make herself another cup of tea. Taking advantage of her turned back, Christopher took the paper and spread it open at the finance pages, now obscuring the headlines completely.
‘Yes, they said it would be fine,’ Emma said into the phone after a suitable lull. ‘When shall I start?’
‘Come over to my place after school today to meet Izzy, number 25 Hill View terrace. We can take it from there.’
Forgetting the disturbing newspaper headline for a moment, Emma gave an excited little jump, which neither of her parents noticed. Every job meant more money for Josef and the Cause, more freedom and another step towards getting away from this place. Her toast popped and she smothered it in butter and lashings of honey. She was ready to make her escape when her mother said, ‘You’re not going to school dressed like that are you?’
Emma shrugged, causing her toast to fall from the plate and land honey side down on the faux marble floor.
‘Please, let’s not start again, Miranda,’ Christopher said with a long sigh. ‘Just let her wear what she likes.’
‘But she dresses like that just to spite me, she knows it upsets me. She knows it, but still she goes to school dressed like a tramp.’
‘The way kids dress these days is no reflection on their upbringing. Everyone knows Emma comes from a good home, that I have money.’
Miranda’s sigh was worthy of Greek tragedy. ‘Well I certainly haven’t seen much of your money recently. Besides, this isn’t only about you, or only about money, Christopher.’
‘Don’t worry, Miranda,’ Emma said as she mopped up the honey from the faux marble tiles. ‘Not too many people know I’m your daughter—it’s not something I care to advertise.’
‘For heaven’s sake, stop calling me by my first name!’
Emma glanced at her father. He looked up from his paper, met her eye and gave her a wink.
The doorbell rang but no one moved to answer it. Julian Holdsworth, Miranda’s photographer, let himself in and wandered through the house to the family room just as Emma was making her way back upstairs. One glance at his beaming face and droopy blond noodle of a moustache made her quicken her steps. ‘How’s my gorgeous girl then?’ he called up to her. The look he gave her as she beat her retreat made her relieved she wasn’t wearing a skirt. She pretended she hadn’t heard him and closed her bedroom door.
The voices had long since gone from downstairs, her parents and Julian having left for work. Emma looked at her watch; she still had half an hour before she was due at school.
The breakfast table had been left in disarray for the housekeeper. The paper lay where her father had left it, the finance pages spread across the dirty plates. She stopped for a moment, not daring to touch it. As she downed the half finished glass of orange juice her mother had left she thought how unusual it was for Miranda to leave any. The pervert at the modelling agency and mention of the police must really have left her rattled. The slippery smart of the vodka gave her the courage she needed to turn to the front page of the paper: ‘Missing girl’s body found at Midland building site.’
Another victim, another miserable story and this one with an ending of the worst kind. She read on until her glasses misted, and she was forced to remove and clean them on her T-shirt. Her hands shook. Breathing deeply, she tried to pull herself together—this was not the time for tears.
Back in her room, her fingers flew across the keyboard with little conscious thought from her. Emma hated to be late for school, but today she would have to make an exception. She would tell the teacher there’d been a trauma at home. Her father had run over their dog in the driveway and they’d had to make an emergency dash to the vet. In the car she’d held poor Snuffy in her arms, one side of his dear little head caved in and covered in gore. The vet was going to wire the dog’s jaw and set his broken leg, but he didn’t think he’d survive the operation. The tears Emma had held back while she read the newspaper would be allowed to gush freely. Everyone would believe her and everyone would feel sorry for her. Emma Breightling was a good actor; Emma Breightling was good at everything she chose to do.
And she was also an exceedingly good liar.
8
CHAT ROOM TRANSCRIPT 100207
TIMTAM: did u get the pix of the mullets I sent?
ANGEL12: yeah thnx
TIMTAM: what do u think?
ANGEL12: squeeeeeee!!!!
TIMTAM: did they make u feel horny?
ANGEL12: ur baaaad lol!
Robert Mason had been denied bail. He would be held on remand at Hakea prison, pending trial.
‘The bus from Hakea will be here soon, but there’s a few more things we need to ask,’ Stevie said as a uniformed officer escorted Robert Mason into one of Central’s interview rooms.
She glanced at Tash and gave her a discreet nod. It would be interesting to see how she handled their pre-planned tactics, if she could strike the right balance in her ‘bad cop’ role. It would also be a good indication of how seriously Tash had taken her earlier warning. This was a fact-finding mission only and hard as it might be, it was paramount that they leave their personal prejudices outside the interview room door.
The uniformed officer pushed Mason into a chair and closed the door behind him. Mason leaned on the table and pushed his fingers through his spiky hair, looking first at Tash then at Stevie.
‘You two again?’ he whined. ‘I’ve admitted it, I’m gonna plead guilty, what more do you want?’ Swamped in regulation overalls, he looked ridiculously young, almost young enough to be a victim himself.
Stevie couldn’t have cared less.
‘Just a few more questions, that’s all,’ she said.
‘Bu
t shouldn’t my lawyer be here?’ Mason looked around the barren interview room as if his lawyer might appear out of one of the sludge green walls.
‘It’s okay, we’ve discussed this with him, it doesn’t involve your actual case.’
‘Then w-what...’
‘Cooperate with us now and I guarantee it will be taken into consideration during the trial,’ Stevie said.
He was interested; Stevie could tell by the way his deep brown eyes stopped flitting around the room to focus on hers. Tash had called them ‘gravy eyes’, but bottomless cesspools might be a more appropriate term, Stevie reflected, keeping her face blank.
He touched his brow. ‘I have a headache.’
‘I’ll get you something for it in a minute,’ she said. When she was ready to get him something, she would, and not before. To get the optimum amount of information from him he had to be shown that his every physical need was under their control.
‘How can I make this easier?’ he asked.
‘A young girl’s body was found in a builder’s skip yesterday. She was the victim of a paedophile,’ Stevie said.
His eyes widened with panic. ‘You had me locked up yesterday, I couldn’t have done it!’
‘No one’s saying you did, but this murderer and you seem to share a similar approach...’
‘So?’
‘Listen to Sergeant Hooper!’
Stevie tensed, expecting a barrage of Tash’s dirtiest insults: rock spider, hanging Johnny, shit head, scum of the earth. She let out a silent sigh of relief when none seemed forthcoming. Well done, Tash.
‘We think you’re involved with some kind of Internet club where people like you can swap information and methods of picking up kids,’ Stevie said.
Mason wriggled in his seat, adjusting his overalls in the crotch area. ‘There are groups like that all over the net.’
‘But this one is locally based and contains a list of chat rooms and websites frequented by Perth kids. In fact, I think you got the address of the Stoned Mullets chat room visited by Angel12 from this site, yeah?’
SH02 - Harum Scarum Page 5
