The Vale Girl

by Nelika McDonald

  chapter thirty-three

  Sometimes when I wake up, to have the whole day stretching ahead of me in here is the most terrifying thing I can think of. All those empty hours to fill, trying to school my mind to stay in places that are safe for it to dwell. There is not a lot else I can do. I’ve explored every inch of this place, mapping it, measuring it. I know I’m supposed to stay where I am, but that is like telling a fish not to swim. It makes me think of Tommy, exploring the space I’m in. That’s what he does, whenever he goes anywhere new. Assesses his surroundings, figures out the lay of the land.

  My mother had been telling me for a while that, sooner or later, Tommy wasn’t going to be content with just being friends. She said at his age, he couldn’t think about much else but what to do with what was in his pants. Friends couldn’t help him with that. I didn’t really believe her, until he started looking at me like I was one of his flowers, a strange specimen that he’d never seen before. We would be doing something, swimming or walking or watching telly, and I’d turn to him and he would be looking at me like he was in pain, like he just couldn’t breathe unless he could touch me. Like I was a glass of water and he’d never been so thirsty.

  So one day, I kissed him. Because he was my friend and I wanted to give him what he longed for. Because that was something I could do for him, and there was so little else. As soon as I did it, I knew I’d made a mistake. It wasn’t just that this was Tommy Johns instead of James Dean or Rock Hudson from one of Mum’s movies. It was because, if I kissed him again, he wouldn’t just be my friend anymore. He would be something else and that was strange and complicated and messy and true. And I needed him as a friend more than anything else. I didn’t have any others, and there wasn’t exactly a queue for the spot. He must have known it was a mistake too, because as soon as I did it he jumped up and ran off, faster than a rat up a drainpipe.

  I don’t know why he ran. He was probably just as confused as I was. Sometimes when you think you want something, it’s only when you get it that you realise you were wrong. That it wasn’t what you wanted at all. But by then, it is usually too late.

  chapter thirty-four

  Crane was in the office, his feet up on the table, reading the paper. He had asked Reg at the pub to send his lunch over on a tray, steak and kidney pie today, meat succulent and bathed in rich gravy under the golden pastry lid, chips as fat as his fingers and a mess of mushy peas on the side. Sergeant Henson sat at the lunchroom table, the file on Sarah Vale spread open in front of him. He ate his ham sandwich and drank cold tea from a flask. He looked at the pages of notes, records from when Tommy had come in to report Sarah missing, up to the arrest and subsequent release of the Wolfe boys. Crane had his men in Sydney ransacking the whole city looking for Cameron, and had ordered a further seven men put on the case there when Sergeant Henson had told him about Mrs Montepulciano’s testimony of the night before. He seemed to think that would suffice, as far as police work went.

  Henson flipped over to the third page of his notes. Susannah Vale, it said. He shook his head. The sergeant had seen abuse of children before. He had seen neglected children, traumatised children, malnourished, scarred and scared children. And he had met many of their mothers, eyes glazed and brows damp with smacked-out fever. But he had never seen someone as dismissive about the welfare of their missing child as Susannah. Usually, if they were coherent, they feigned dismay; they affected a whole teary hand-wringing show about losing their poor baby, even if they were only truly concerned about losing the dole payments said baby entitled them to. But Susannah didn’t even pretend. She just did not seem to care. Sergeant Henson wasn’t sure what Susannah’s poison was; the booze, of course, but probably something else as well. He hadn’t seen any track marks but he hadn’t been looking too closely, for fear she would mistake his inspection for desire. Whatever it was, it had left her coldly honest. The sergeant wondered if there was a new strain of methamphetamine laced with truth serum on the streets. He would be out of a job if there was.

  It wasn’t as though Susannah appeared to hate Sarah. She didn’t seem malicious, or resentful. Just uninterested, and something about that didn’t ring true. Even if she and her daughter were not bosom buddies, they cohabited, and clearly Susannah depended on her daughter. Sergeant Henson had never met a fastidious alcoholic or drug addict. Hygiene was simply a secondary concern when a person was in thrall to some substance or other. There was no point, to the addict, of cleanliness just for the sake of cleanliness – everything existed and was relevant only insofar as it pertained to or supported their habit. And squalor was just as conducive to pumping your veins full of heroin or soaking your liver in booze as hospital-grade sterility was. So if their living quarters were well-maintained, it was probably not their own doing. Sarah was obviously the caretaker in the Vale home. This being the case, wouldn’t Susannah at least be curious about where her handmaiden had gone? Worried about her own welfare in Sarah’s absence? There was another other possibility, Henson mused: that she knew Sarah was safe, but for some reason or other was keeping her mouth shut.

  Susannah was certainly no stranger to keeping mum. Henson had read her file on his arrival in Banville. Geoffrey Aramore had jotted a few extra ‘character’ notes in the files, just his own impressions of people, and while Henson had been careful not to rely on them until he could ascertain their veracity for himself, over the years he had come to consider Aramore’s notes as facts. They were as true as the day is long. In Susannah’s file, Aramore had used a few colourful expressions to describe both her demeanour and line of work, and also written: ‘Father: Winston Vale, prize arsehole. Owner of Rafferty’s Hardware Emporiums. Moderate union activity. Suspected involvement in Doyle fraud cases of 75–77. Deceased: see file, V. R. 711.’ Henson had then read Winston Vale’s file. Domestic disturbances every other week. Aramore knew Mr Vale beat both his wife and daughter, maybe even worse – and then there was the psychological assault: whatever he said that made those women so scared of him. Aramore had been called to the Vale property many times after neighbours reported screaming but neither Susannah nor her mother Elizabeth had ever pressed charges against Winston, despite repeated entreaties from Aramore himself, and Elizabeth’s mother Evangeline. Evidently, Susannah eventually ended up back in Banville, and Sarah was born not long after. Only the man upstairs knew who the father was, word had it. It was a miracle of His own doing that there hadn’t been a baby sooner.

  Henson read through his current notes again, in case he had missed something from the interview they had conducted in Susannah’s bedroom. The summary of their conversation revealed nothing. He took a last gulp of his tea, brushed the sandwich crumbs from his chin and stood up, closing the file and tucking it under his arm. It was time to pay another visit to Susannah Vale.

  At the Vale property, Sergeant Henson knocked on the door, and when he didn’t get an answer, walked around the side of the house and up the side steps that led into the kitchen. A rope was tied from the handle of the wheelie bin on the ground to the railing on the landing at the top, so a bag of rubbish could be deposited without actually going down to the bin. Ingenious, thought Henson. Must have been Sarah’s invention. He looked at the rope where it had frayed around the knot and thought of her hands when they had tied it. Strong hands, knuckles whitening when she gripped the rope, the strength of her, each muscle signalling the next like dominoes falling when she pulled it tight, the vine of her veins under the tissue paper sheaves of skin, blood pumping around and around. A healthy, living young girl.

  The sergeant leant on the railing for a moment. She was alive when she tied this rope. Was she still alive now? Henson prided himself on how few of his cases remained open. He worked tirelessly, constantly, until he came to a conclusion, and sometimes that conclusion took the form of a body, bloated and stiff with rigor. That was the worst type. The best conclusions were the families reunited, the men behind bars, the eleventh-hour admission, the guilty verdict. The drop of the gavel
that meant: all is done. But a conclusion, any conclusion, there had to be. He propped himself up on his elbows and breathed deeply. Sarah might still be out there somewhere, alive, waiting, praying to be found. And he was bloody well going to figure out if Susannah knew where she was. He opened the screen door into the kitchen and let it bang.

  ‘Gray? Is that you?’ Susannah called. 'Gray? Graham?'

  ‘It isn’t Gray,’ Sergeant Henson called back. He waited.

  A television blared and then quickly went quiet.

  ‘Well, whoever it is, come back tomorrow. I’m having the night off,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah? Alright for some.’

  A pause.

  ‘Who is that?’

  Sergeant Henson looked around the kitchen. It wasn’t so neat anymore. He opened the chest freezer that sat beside the sink. He pulled out a plastic container with a handwritten label that read ‘Shepherd’s Pie. Heat for fifteen minutes at 180 degrees’. He peered down into the freezer cavity. It was stacked full of boxes, there must have been thirty there at least, all labelled with their contents and cooking instructions. Empty ones were stacked by the sink. A line of ants snaked over them. He heard languid footsteps dragging down the hall. Susannah appeared in the doorway and saw the sergeant. She rolled her eyes and turned back towards her bedroom.

  ‘Just a moment, Ms Vale.’

  ‘Call me Suzie.’

  ‘Has someone been cooking for you?’ He waggled the freezer container at her.

  She shrugged dismissively. ‘I cook.’

  ‘Yeah? In advance? There’s a fair bit in stock here.’

  She looked at him squarely. ‘Yeah, well, nights can be busy around here.’ She stretched, clasping the doorframe above her for leverage and arching her back. She wore only a t-shirt and underwear. Her shirt rode up and the Sergeant saw the darker thatch of her pubic hair through the pale cotton of her knickers. She saw him looking and laughed softly. He looked at the floor. Susannah took a few steps towards him.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘What can you do for me?’

  ‘Are you asking me, now? I’ve got a few suggestions. I could make an exception for you on my night off.’

  ‘Tell me where Sarah is.’

  Something passed over her face. Was it fear? Was she scared? It was gone as quickly as it came.

  ‘Sarah. Why do you always want to talk about Sarah?’

  ‘Did she cook this for you? Before she left? Did Graham Knight cook it?’

  ‘I told you I cooked it.’

  It was the sergeant’s turn to step closer to her. ‘Look at me. I know you know something. Did Sarah plan on going somewhere? Did she tell you where?’

  ‘She’s missing.’ Susannah blew upwards with her bottom lip puffed out and her hair fanned out from her forehead.

  ‘Did she run away?’

  ‘And leave her bag with all her money behind at the creek? My money?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘She’s missing.’ Susannah went to the sink, rinsed a glass, filled it with water and drank. Then she spat it out, spraying the window in front of the sink with water. She retched, leaning over the basin, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Something in the tank. Water tastes bad.’

  ‘It’s not meant to come out whisky-flavoured.’

  She came closer again; pleased she had changed the subject. ‘Will you have a look at it for me?’

  Sergeant Henson shook his head at her. Water had dribbled down her chin and soaked the neckline of her shirt, and it clung to her collarbones, protruding like a shelf. Sarah had those same collarbones. They were too thin, both of them. She leant towards him and he turned and went out the side door again. As he was walking down the steps, he heard something shatter – glass. She must have dropped it on the floor. The sergeant raised his eyebrows. Did I make you shaky, Susannah? Good. Before he left, he slipped around the back to look at the tank. It was firmly shut. There was a note tied to the tap, encased in a plastic zip-lock bag. ‘Please release lever slowly or else pipe becomes jammed. Turn tap off using attached pliers or it drips. Thanks.’ Sarah again, responsible for every nail and bolt. Ethel Fetteridge was right. This household was upside down.

  Sergeant Henson drove to the post office and double parked out the front. It was closed, but Elspeth was still there, vacuuming. He knocked loudly and she frowned at him, but switched off the vacuum cleaner and came to the door.

  ‘The sign clearly says –’

  The sergeant held up a hand. ‘Police business, Elspeth.’

  ‘Oh?’ She went back behind her counter.

  ‘Yes. I need to see some of your recent transactions on the Vale account.’

  Elspeth raised her eyebrows. ‘You have a search warrant? A subpoena for my records? I have responsibilities to my customers to follow due procedure and –’

  ‘I haven’t got the time to go through the official channels. Matter of urgency.’ Henson shook his head and cast his eyes downwards as if in sorrow that he could not adhere to Elspeth’s due procedure.

  ‘Urgency?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He leant over the counter and lowered his voice. ‘It’s Susannah Vale, you see. I went there this evening, and the house, well . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You probably couldn’t even fathom it, Elspeth. I’ve heard a man could eat a full English breakfast right off your kitchen floor.’

  ‘Four parts water to one part each of vinegar and lemon juice, and two heaped teaspoons of bicarbonate of soda. And don’t be afraid to really scrub at it. Hard-wearing lino can take it. That’s my secret.’ Elspeth tapped her pen on the counter and nodded sagely.

  ‘I’m worried about a possible infestation originating at that property.’

  Elspeth drew in her breath. She began to fan at her damp forehead with her hand.

  ‘Cockroaches?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so worried about the cockroaches. They can be tamed. It’s the rats I’m concerned about. I wouldn’t want to be looking back and saying to myself, “Now, Sergeant, you could have stopped that plague in its tracks if only you called an exterminator right at the beginning there.” I just need to see if there’s enough money in the Vale utilities accounts to pay for it. Otherwise, on the taxpayer’s head be it.’

  Elspeth shook her head and grimaced. ‘The taxpayer! Not on your nelly. She should be well clear to cover it herself. Graham Knight came in just last week and paid up everything in full. Water, gas, electrics, even the telephone is clear.’ She rummaged through her filing cabinet. ‘Here you go.’

  The sergeant took the files, reminding himself to look grateful. She’d just told him everything he needed to know anyway.

  ‘Much obliged.’ He tipped his hat at Elspeth, who blushed. Henson took a few steps and then turned back and looked at the woman behind the counter, frowning.

  ‘Elspeth?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you this is all strictly confidential, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Elspeth mimed zipping her lips up and tossing away the key.

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Henson walked out the door, seemingly engrossed in the folder he held, Elspeth picked up the phone.

  ‘Vera? It’s me. We need to organise a cleaning bee at the Vale house. Immediately.’

  From the verandah outside the post office where he had paused to listen, Sergeant Henson smiled to himself, and then walked down the steps and back to his car. Like taking candy from a baby.

  chapter thirty-five

  Later that night, Tommy was on the Wilkinsons’ roof reading a comic with a pen-shaped torch he had nicked from the newsagent’s. When you clicked down the button to release the nib of the pen, a beam of light shone out instead. It was fairly weak, and he had to keep depressing the button to refresh the light. From the street, it would appear to be a firefly, winking on and off.

  The front door to the Knight house opened, an
d a figure walked out the door and through the yard into the street. The figure wore a beanie pulled down low, and a blue backpack. It was too tall to be Geraldine; it had to be him. He was going to see Sarah. What else would he be doing this late at night? The backpack must have food in it.

  Tommy slid down the shingles onto the scaffolding, then jumped onto the grass and ran barefoot out to the street. He stopped there, frozen, wrestling with his conscience. Sergeant Henson had urged him not to ‘go rogue’, but surely there were exceptions? Like when opportunities presented themselves and there was no time to call for help? And when someone might lead you right to the thing you were looking for, if you just quietly, cleverly followed them? Tommy pictured Sarah, rope at her ankles and wrists, a thick cotton gag stuffed in her mouth. He didn’t think about it for too long. He scanned the landscape in all directions, but couldn’t see far, there were few streetlights and the night was as black as a tinker’s pot. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he spotted Graham turning the corner. Tommy ran after him, pulling his dark hooded sweatshirt on as he went. He was still wearing shorts, though, and his legs shone in the dark. He would have to be very careful. All his hours on the Wilkinson’s roof would be for nothing if Graham spotted him now. Tommy would lose his chance to save Sarah Vale. Tommy imagined how her green eyes would light up when she saw him, and he would pick her up – yes, pick her up! – and carry her out of there, wherever it was. Graham could try to stop him.