by Anna Willett
As the afternoon drew on, the stream of people in and out of the station dwindled. By 2:15 Damon counted less than nine people in the building. The waiting area, a few shabby fabric chairs just inside the front door of the building, gave him a clear view of the two front rooms on either side of the hallway. Apart from four uniformed officers and a handful of forensics people in white suits, the activity in the building was waning. He guessed that either there had been a new discovery that had drawn staff away from the station, or the investigative team was moving to bigger premises.
He stood and stretched his back, hoping to get a better view of the kitchen at the far end of the hallway. Old weatherboard houses always had a back exit off the kitchen and he intended to step outside and call Larson. His boss had been retired from the force for years, but still had contacts. Maybe Larson could make some calls and hurry the process up so Damon and Brock could get back to work.
Almost as soon as he moved, Senior Constable Bryant, seated in the room to Damon’s right, lifted his angular face and surveyed Damon’s movements with interest that bordered on suspicion. If it wasn’t for the seriousness of the situation, Damon would have found it difficult not to laugh. Instead, he gave the senior constable a smile and rubbed the base of his spine.
Looking somewhat suspicious, Bryant went back to his computer screen. Brock looked up just as Damon jerked his chin towards the kitchen. His partner glanced both ways then nodded.
Treading carefully on the worn floorboards and keeping his movements relaxed, Damon headed for the kitchen. Making it only as far as the archway, he was halted by the appearance of a rather small man in a white business shirt and blazer.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” If the man thought it strange that Damon was wandering around the police station, he gave no indication. “Please come through.” He stood aside and motioned Damon through the archway and into the kitchen. Before he could answer, the man was looking over Damon’s shoulder and speaking to Brock. “This way, please.”
A moment later, both Damon and Brock were seated at a desk placed parallel to an old-fashioned kitchen sink and cabinets. The kitchen smelled of drain cleaner and dust and the desk looked like something out of the 1970s.
“I’m Detective Lighnus.”
He settled himself on the other side of the desk as he spoke, his almost bald pate picking up the light as it fell through the window.
“I know you’ve been waiting a while, so I’ll try to make this as quick as possible.” There was something fussy about the man that reminded Damon of a carpet salesman. Someone who’d try to up-sell you shag pile rather than investigate a crime. “Let’s start with names.”
Lighnus jotted their names down on a white slab of paper as behind them the back door opened. Damon had to crane his neck to see the man entering the house.
“This is my partner Detective Slekovic.” Lighnus held out a hand in what struck Damon as quite the theatrical gesture.
Slekovic, a younger man in his mid-thirties with bulging eyes, nodded and leaned his muscular frame against the wall. Damon had the distinct impression that the two men were playing out some prearranged pantomime for his and Brock’s benefit. Something perhaps both detectives did when interviewing suspects.
“Can you explain why you were at Mrs Plick’s house today?”
Lighnus’ eyes reminded Damon of shiny buttons as they moved back and forth.
“Yes.” Damon held the detective’s gaze. “We were there to speak to Mrs Plick.”
The detective waited, but Damon was silent.
Lighnus nodded, a sharp impatient movement. “What did you want to see Mrs Plick about?”
“You know why we were there.” Damon leaned back in his chair. “We already told Senior Constable Bryant.”
They’d told Bryant they wanted to ask Marina if she’d seen anyone entering or leaving the fire road. What they’d left out was that they had a particular person in mind.
“I’m sure he’s passed that information along,” Damon said.
“Yes, that may be so, but–”
“Stop the fucking games and get to the point.” It was the first time Brock had spoken since giving the detective his name. The coldness in his voice took Damon by surprise. Judging by the way Lighnus flinched and Slekovic shifted his weight behind them, it wasn’t what the detectives had expected.
“You know who we work for and what we were doing at the Plick place.” Brock’s voice was flat and matter of fact. “That wasn’t a fresh crime scene and I’m guessing the bodies you found in the forest weren’t put there yesterday, so we all know we’re not suspects.”
Lighnus held up his hands palms out. “I never said you were suspects.”
“Then stop giving us your interview song and dance,” Damon interjected. He knew damn well what the detective wanted to know, but neither he nor Brock intended to share the information.
Lighnus laced his hands together and placed them on the desk. Damon noticed the man’s nails were clipped short and buffed to a high shine.
“All right. But first let me say that you’ve reported two crime scenes within two days. If I wanted, I could have you both charged with impeding an investigation or breaking and entering,” Lighnus said.
“And our employer will go straight to the press.” Damon was starting to really dislike the man. “It won’t look good that the only lucky breaks you people have made have come through two licensed private investigators.”
Brock spoke before Lighnus could get a word in. “One an ex-police officer and the other a former high-ranking military officer.”
Damon wasn’t surprised by Brock’s mention of their history, but he could see that Lighnus was. The detective’s mouth puckered, and his brown eyes flicked from them to Slekovic. It was obvious the detectives hadn’t taken the time to dig very far into Damon’s and Brock’s backgrounds or they would have known more about the two men they were interviewing. It was an error in judgement and all four of them knew it.
When Lighnus spoke, it was clear he didn’t like the way the interview was going. “Okay. Just tell me who you were looking for?” He leaned forward and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Damon. “And don’t fucking tell me you were just going to ask if Plick had seen anyone hanging around. I want to know why you were looking for Marina Plick and how you think she’s connected to the missing boy.”
The harmless carpet salesman was gone now and Damon had an idea he was dealing with the real Lighnus.
As the detective spoke, Damon’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Even with the sound switched off, the buzz was loud enough for everyone to hear. Lighnus’ eyes narrowed, but Damon ignored the buzz and pushed on.
“Is Marina Plick dead?” he answered by giving the detective a question of his own. Damon didn’t know for sure, but he’d seen the woman’s house and the blood stains. Someone had died in that sitting room, and with the owner nowhere to be found his money was on Marina.
Lighnus’ expression was unreadable, but his hands dropped and disappeared under the table. “I’m not able to give out information about an ongoing investigation. But if you’re holding something back – something that might help us find Clem Scott – you’d better tell me now.”
Withholding the information about the woman from the fête was risky, especially if they were right about her being one of Marina’s former foster kids. If that were the case and they were too late to save Clem, Damon had no doubt the detectives would find something to charge them with. But if they told Lighnus what they knew, the search for the woman with the fake belly would escalate into a full-blown manhunt and she might panic and get rid of the boy. Either way, both he and Brock could end up in hot water.
“We’ve told you all we know.” Damon pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, not completely feigning weariness. He was tired of the questions and the back and forth. After their discovery at the Plick house, he was sure they were getting closer to a breakthrough, so sure that his nerves we
re jumping with the need to keep moving.
After going over the same ground for another ten minutes, Damon and Brock were finally dismissed, but before letting the two men leave Lighnus gave Damon his card and assured them that they’d be arrested if they had any further involvement in the search for Clem Scott.
Damon asked Brock to drive and waited until they were on the road heading back to the motel to check his phone. He’d been expecting a call from Lucy asking him what the hold-up was. Instead, he had a missed call from Larson followed by a text asking him to call as soon as possible.
When Larson answered Damon’s call, there was irritation in his voice. “I thought you’d all dropped off the edge of the world. I’ve been trying to get hold of Lucy, but her phone must be turned off.”
Before Damon had time to wonder why Lucy’s phone would be turned off, Larson continued. “I managed to get the information Lucy wanted from the Department of Child Protection. It wasn’t easy. I owe some major favours, but let’s hope it was worth it.”
Damon pulled the phone away from his ear and switched the call to speaker so Brock could hear what Larson was about to tell them.
“In 2003, Marina Plick had only one foster child in her care. A girl named Mimi Shaw. According to her file, Shaw lived with Marina from age thirteen to sixteen. Mimi ran away in 2003 and was later picked up and placed in Broadwater, a state run facility for juveniles with mental health issues.”
They were on the main road heading towards Boddington. Damon let his eyes rest on the trees hemming the side of the two-lane road. “So no other kids in the house, just the girl Mimi.” He was mulling the information over by speaking aloud, but Larson took his words on face value and answered.
“Only Marina’s son, Tyson Plick.”
Damon wasn’t sure how Marina having a son impacted the case, but anything they could find out about Mimi Shaw might help. “So the son would have known Mimi quite well.”
“Well enough for her to go to him for help when she’s on the run?” Brock spoke for the first time, picking up on Damon’s train of thought.
“Okay.” Larson’s disembodied voice filled the Jeep. “I’ll see if I can track anything down on the son. You work it from your end.”
After Larson hung up, Damon turned to Brock. “Sadie’s friend identified the woman at the fête as Milly or Maddie. I’d say Mimi is our girl. Let’s hope Lucy found out more during her meeting with Sadie’s friend.”
Brock appeared to be considering something before he spoke. “No doubt Mimi is the woman at the fête, but did she snatch Clem Scott?”
Damon knew it was too early to jump to conclusions, but he had a feeling they were on the right track. “Only one way to find out.”
Chapter Twenty-four
He thought about driving on, heading east and never looking back. Even going as far as filling up at the sad looking petrol station. But as much as he was growing to hate the woman he once loved, Smiley couldn’t just walk away. Mimi was in his brain. She’d been there since he was fifteen. If he could, he would use the knife he kept strapped to his ankle and dig inside his own skull to cut out the part of his brain she had imprinted herself on. Without thinking, he rubbed his temple. If he could do that, maybe he’d finally be free.
The rum he purchased tasted like turpentine, but it was all they had had at the liquor shop. He took a swig then tucked the bottle between his legs. The alcohol burned the pit of his gut, making him grimace. He was sick of small towns. After he sorted things with Mimi, he’d drive across the Nullarbor and set himself up in Melbourne.
With the decisions made, he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, the wheels turning up a cloud of red dust. The only problem now was the boy. Passing the kid onto Dale would make him some money, but every time he thought about what would be in store for the boy, Smiley’s stomach twisted, the pain tearing at his insides. Long ago he had been that little boy, not snatched, but born into a life of abuse.
The woman that should have kept him safe had been the one who had given him to strangers. The hatred he felt for Marina was like black venom running through his veins, poisoning his insides. Yet, he’d shed tears when Mimi killed his mother, blubbering like a baby at the sight of her on the sitting room floor. Smiley’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He had to stop Mimi. It would be better coming from him, better with it being someone close rather than a stranger.
Once it was done he’d take care of the boy. Better the kid died than end up with Dale. Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision. What other way was there? He couldn’t take the kid to the cops, not without ending up taking the blame for abducting him. If that happened, they’d find out about Marina’s house and the chase.
Smiley took a gulp of rum and shivered as the burning in his stomach ratcheted up to a scald. He would spend his life in prison if he took the boy to the cops. “My hero days are over.” He opened the driver’s window and spat into the air.
He’d do it quickly and make sure the kid didn’t feel anything. Maybe that way he’d be doing some good, making up for all the things he’d done to the dead-heads. His mind skipped from the faces of the illegal immigrants to a girl he’d met in a sleazy bar in Perth. The Easy Eight Bar. The name appeared in the mist that clouded his memory.
He’d done things to that girl. He’d done them for money and at the time he was too stoned and too angry to care. But now he could hear the sound of her cries. They followed him into sleep. Some nights he’d wake up screaming. He pressed his hand to his stomach and gritted his teeth. He’d make things right and it would be like none of the awful stuff ever happened. He would shed the evil skin he’d been living in and go back to being Tyson, not the whimpering victim, but a new version of Tyson. A man who knew what it took to get to the top of the pile.
* * *
Below the chatter of the TV lay another sound, one that set his heart pounding. As his blood raced, the twisting in his gut turned into a roiling sensation.
Leaving the front door open behind him, Smiley entered Elaine’s house. Sobbing and murmuring like a frantic chant echoed from the direction of the kitchen. It came from Mimi. He’d know her voice anywhere. It was happening again. He didn’t have to see what she’d done to know things were out of control.
But seeing and smelling the mess in the kitchen still hit him like a bullet, and for a second his legs buckled. Smiley was no light weight, but the scene snatched his breath away. He took hold of the door frame and steadied himself.
“What have you done?” The words came out in an involuntary croak. He didn’t need an answer. The carnage was there for him to see.
Mimi’s head snapped up. Confusion settled in her eyes. In that moment he wanted to forget everything he’d decided and take her hand. He wanted nothing more than to pull her away from the bloody chaos and run, just like all those years ago.
Mimi was kneeling on the floor, hands held out, palms up. “I… I… She was going to call the cops.”
Smiley’s eyes looked at the phone that had been torn from the wall and tossed into the puddle of gore, then back to Elaine’s body. Instead of going to Mimi, he crouched in the doorway and laced his hands through his dirty blonde hair.
“I can’t do this anymore.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or Mimi, only that he felt like he’d been stabbed, yet instead of blood his strength had bled out.
He could hear her crawling closer, the sound of her knees slipping through the blood as she crossed the floor to reach him. “Smiley, don’t say that. It wasn’t my fault.” Her voice was shaky, but growing stronger.
When she touched him with sticky hands, he flinched, then pulled away. Like a child, he wanted to close his eyes and believe the horror would disappear. Her cold wet fingers dug into his shoulders, clawing at him, making him groan with disgust.
“We have to get rid of her before anyone comes.” She was whispering, her breath hot and urgent on his ear. “I’ll do whatever you want. You were right about th
e boy. We have to get rid of him.”
Her lips brushed his skin.
The feel of her mouth was blistering hot and, as if he’d been stung, he struck out. The push sent her skidding onto her butt.
“Stop.” He stood over her. “Just shut up.”
Her mouth was open and tears were running down her cheeks, cutting lines through the spatter on her face. Any pity he’d had for her vanished when she mentioned getting rid of the boy. The same thing had been in his mind, but hearing the words on her lips sickened him. Any feelings he had for her were swallowed up by the realisation that she was ready to sacrifice the kid to save her own skin.
Just like she sacrificed me to save herself.
She had begged him to get rid of Franko, tortured him with the gory details of what Marina’s boyfriend did to her, pushed and pushed until he agreed to bash the man’s brains to mush. And when the cops finally caught up with them, she pleaded with him to take all the blame. It didn’t matter that he was eighteen and would go to prison. Smiley had blindly protected her.
He spent six years locked up for manslaughter. Anything that hadn’t been done to him growing up in Marina’s house was soon taken care of inside. He’d stupidly thought himself a hero, but the filth of his childhood and his years in prison still clung to him. It twisted inside him until he became a monster. They were both monsters.
“You make me sick.” The words spewed out in a spray of spittle. The stench of blood and the sight of Mimi’s face were too much. He had to get out.
As he turned to leave, her hand shot out and grabbed his jeans. The feel of her fingers was too much. He kicked, desperate to shake her free. His leg slipped from her grasp and clipped Mimi’s chin. He didn’t know if it was an accident or if part of him had meant to hurt her, but her head rocked back and she slumped onto the floor.
