Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  Hugo was lost in a Hollywood fantasy about a frontier family where everyone, despite the absence of dental care and hairdressing salons, had pristine sets of all-American teeth and highly upholstered hair. He looked up as she came in.

  ‘Angie McDonald wants to see you,’ said Gemma.

  Hugo’s face brightened. Then he frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘She wants you to go in and make a statement. About those two boys assaulting you.’

  Hugo looked stricken. ‘No way! No way I’m dobbing to the police.’

  ‘But, Hugo,’ said Gemma, coming to sit beside him, ‘this can’t go on. This is a serious matter. These boys are committing an assault – a criminal offence – every time they bash you. They can be charged. They can be arrested.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, hurling a cushion onto the floor. ‘It’s not happening. Okay?’

  It was no use, Gemma realised. Hugo would rather continue to endure the sadism of these bullies than make an official complaint.

  ‘The whole school would be on to me if I dobbed.’

  ‘Hugo, you have no choice in it. Angie’s under an obligation to report this. So is any adult in a position of trust in your life. It has to be done.’

  She sat beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘We’re going to work out a way to solve this,’ she said. ‘To make sure those bastards get theirs, and that you don’t suffer any more. Okay? And without any blowback to you.’

  He looked at her, and his eyes were despairing. ‘How?’ he asked.

  Gemma looked past him and out the sliding doors to the dark blue sea. She had no idea. She jumped when the phone rang.

  ‘I’m on my way to the hospital,’ said Angie. ‘Donovan Finn is talking and I want to be there before his mother arrives.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there,’ said Gemma.

  •

  Thirty-five minutes later, Gemma and Angie walked into Donovan’s room. Given Findlay’s attitude towards children, both were surprised to find Donovan’s uncle sitting beside him. Then Gemma realised why. A large sketchbook and crayons lay on the floor beside him, and she could see the outlines of a portrait of the little boy amidst the tubes and machines of 21st-century medicine.

  Donny was resting back on hospital pillows, his neck and left shoulder strapped with dressings, his face still swollen on the injured side.

  ‘Hi, Donovan,’ said Angie. ‘I’m a police officer and I need to ask you a few questions about the night you got hurt. Is that okay?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t think you should subject him to an interrogation,’ said Findlay, rising from his chair. ‘In fact, I think you and your nosey friend should go.’ He flashed Gemma a look of dislike.

  ‘Mr Finn,’ said Angie, ‘you’re aware that this is a very serious investigation. We need Donovan’s account of what happened that night.’

  During this conversation, Gemma studied the little boy. He shrank back against his pillows and Gemma recognised the expression on his face. Donny’s really scared, she thought.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ he whispered.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ said Findlay. ‘She won’t be long.’

  ‘Will you stay?’ Donovan asked.

  ‘Me?’ Findlay sounded astonished. ‘You want me to stay?’

  Donovan nodded.

  That was surprising, Gemma thought. Is he scared of being with his mother?

  Angie had pulled up a chair and sat close by the boy. ‘My nephew has heaps of PlayStation games,’ she said. ‘I can bring some in for you. Would you like that?’

  Donny nodded.

  ‘I’ll bring them with me next time I’m here. But there are a few questions I need to ask. About what happened last Monday night.’

  Donny looked away.

  He doesn’t want to talk about this, Gemma thought.

  ‘It’s important that we know what happened that night,’ said Angie. ‘But maybe we should wait until your mother gets here? In case it gets a bit scary when you’re telling us?’

  The boy slowly turned back to face Angie.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember what happened.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Angie. ‘Let’s start with Monday morning. That way, we can just talk about the things you can remember.’

  ‘Okay,’ he whispered.

  ‘You went to school with your mum? Yes?’

  Donovan nodded.

  ‘She dropped you off?’

  Again, he nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me in your own words about that day?’ Angie suggested.

  A long pause during which only the background noise of voices and trolleys on vinyl from the corridor outside and the distant drone of an aeroplane could be heard.

  ‘It was an ordinary Monday,’ Donovan said finally. ‘Just school. And then Miss Henderson told me that Mum had rung and that I was going to Auntie Tina’s place till tea-time. Auntie picked me up and I went back to her place.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And I had some muffins and a milkshake and I mucked around a bit playing with some of Uncle Findlay’s paints.’

  Findlay leaned forward, frowning. ‘Which ones?’

  Donovan looked frightened. ‘Auntie gave me some. And some clean paper and I drew some pictures.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Findlay. ‘I didn’t know she was going into my studio and taking things like that.’

  Angie shot him her death-ray look and Gemma hissed at him under her breath, ‘She won’t be doing it any more.’ The man was unbelievable.

  ‘And then?’ Angie prompted the boy.

  Donovan drew a deep breath and winced, whether in physical or psychological pain it was impossible to tell.

  ‘And then . . . Dad came while I was having tea. I talked to him a little bit.’

  ‘How did he seem?’ Angie asked.

  Donovan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t know. He was – I don’t know.’

  You poor little fellow, Gemma thought.

  ‘What happened next?’ Angie asked.

  ‘He said something to Auntie Tina and then I ran upstairs.’

  ‘Why did you run upstairs, Donny?’ Angie asked.

  As far as he could, given the dressings that constrained him, the boy turned his face away.

  ‘Donny,’ repeated Angie in a soft voice, ‘why did you run upstairs? Did Dad say something to Auntie Tina that upset you?’

  Donny turned his eyes back. ‘It hurts me to talk. I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Tell me, Donny. What did your father say?’

  The silence was suddenly and shockingly interrupted.

  ‘Leave my son alone!’

  Natalie, loaded with wrapped gifts, face dark with anger, stood in the doorway. ‘How dare you question my son like this when I’m not here! Can’t you see how distressed he is?’ She stopped mid-step, glaring at Findlay. ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced at the large block of paper on the floor. ‘Oh, I see. One of your twisted paintings. I don’t want you painting my son.’

  ‘I was just about to leave anyway, when these two arrived,’ Findlay said, his glare encompassing all three women. He began to pack up his overalls.

  ‘Natalie,’ said Angie, who had risen from her perch beside the bed, ‘it was important that we speak with Donovan. It’s a good thing a member of the family was here.’

  ‘I was stuck in the city or I’d have been here half an hour ago. You could have waited until I came.’ She hurried forward and bent to kiss her son. Gemma watched closely. In her peripheral vision, she registered Findlay Finn leaving the room.

  ‘How are you, darling?’

  Donovan’s solemn expression didn’t change. Maybe it’s shock, Gemma thought. His whol
e system seems to have closed down, as if he’s still in some sort of emotional coma.

  ‘It hurts when I talk,’ he repeated.

  ‘Then don’t talk, darling. I’m here now.’

  Natalie sat down in the chair Angie had just vacated and set about clearing the top of the bedside drawers in order to pile the gifts there. ‘Everyone’s sent you something, darling,’ she said. ‘Lots of your friends, Miss Henderson, Jeff and Marnie from next door. Look at all these lovely parcels. Would you like to open some of them?’

  Donovan looked past the gifts to his mother. ‘What happened, Mum?’ he asked, his voice strained with effort.

  ‘When, darling?’

  ‘What happened on Monday night? Where’s Dad?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  Donovan frowned, looking in puzzlement at the faces that surrounded him. ‘I remember Dad coming over and then I ran upstairs.’

  ‘I was just asking him why he ran upstairs,’ said Angie, ‘when you arrived, Natalie.’

  Natalie took her son’s hand. ‘Did something happen to make you run upstairs?’ she asked.

  Gemma willed herself to be aware of every tiny nuance and undercurrent between mother and son. If Natalie Finn was the person who came to the door last Monday night and shot three people, thought Gemma, she’d have to be the coolest customer in the world. She recalled Jaki’s comment about Natalie Finn: the brilliant poker player.

  ‘Dad was . . . I can’t remember. He was . . . he was talking really loud.’

  ‘Maybe he was angry?’ Angie suggested.

  ‘Leading question!’ Natalie snapped. ‘Donny said loud. Not angry.’

  ‘But I think he was angry,’ Donovan whispered, his eyes widening as he recalled. ‘Very, very angry. And he said something . . .’

  ‘What did he say?’ Angie whispered. Gemma held her breath.

  Donovan looked from Angie to his mother. The animated expression on his face faded. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember.’

  His voice dwindled to nothing. In the silence, Angie’s phone rang and she turned away to take the call.

  ‘I think you should go now,’ said Natalie. ‘Donny’s distressed and tiring. He’s already said it’s painful for him to talk. It’s no use badgering him like this. There’ll be time later for all this.’

  Later might be too late, Gemma thought as Natalie glanced over at a senior nurse. ‘Don’t you think he should be left in peace?’ she asked the woman.

  Gemma picked up her briefcase. Nothing more was going to happen now that Natalie had taken over.

  ‘Bye, Donny,’ Gemma said. ‘Thanks for trying to remember what happened. Sometimes it’s very hard to recall things. Especially when . . .’ She shrugged, ‘Especially when you’ve been hurt like you have.’

  ‘Oh, Donny,’ said Angie, diving into her briefcase and bringing out something enclosed in a paper bag. ‘I nearly forgot the most important thing of all.’

  She passed the paper bag to Donovan who opened it. For the first time, a smile brightened the pale face. ‘Bear!’ he said, pulling the battered creature out. ‘Mr Old Bear! I thought I’d lost him. Mum and me have been looking for him everywhere! Where was he?’

  ‘Your father had him.’

  ‘Dad?’ said the puzzled child.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Natalie.

  But Donny was frowning, holding the dirty toy, looking as if he was about to cry. ‘Who did that to him?’

  ‘Did what?’ asked Natalie.

  ‘Someone’s cut his ear off! Look.’

  ‘Have they? Let me see.’ Natalie examined the teddy. ‘It doesn’t matter, darling. It was probably falling off anyway. It’s a wonder he’s got any ears left at all the way you chew them.’

  Still frowning, Donovan took the bear back and held it close to his face, comforted by its familiar shape and smell.

  ‘What do you think?’ Gemma asked as she and Angie left the small family group and made their way to the lift.

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Angie. ‘The kid’s been traumatised. God knows what he remembers and what he doesn’t. I spoke to one of the neurosurgeons earlier and he said that sometimes it’s like this. Sometimes the memories return slowly, bit by bit. Other times they’re lost and never return.’

  ‘Do you believe him when he says he can’t remember?’ asked Gemma. ‘Or do you think he’s scared, or protecting someone? He did seem reluctant to talk about his father’s state of mind.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Angie. ‘Is Hugo going to come in and talk to me?’

  ‘He’s adamant. He won’t dob.’

  ‘Get me his father’s phone number then and I’ll see what can be done. Hang on,’ she said as her mobile rang and she listened intently a few moments. ‘Okay,’ she said and called off.

  ‘Donovan’s testimony may be irrelevant now,’ said Angie. ‘Brace yourself. That was my girlfriend in homicide. Jaki Hunter has just been charged with two counts of murder and one of attempted murder.’

  The shock hit Gemma like a blow. ‘Jaki, charged?’ she heard herself say.

  ‘DAL got a match for Bryson Finn and Bettina Finn from the blood on Jaki’s overalls,’ Angie continued, hastening her stride. She swung on Gemma. ‘I knew she was guilty. I just knew it. And until this information goes public, forget it.’

  Gemma couldn’t forget. Nor did she try. All she could think of was Jaki’s awful predicament. She couldn’t believe that someone she’d known as a friend for some years could be capable of such terrible crimes. In the past, Gemma had met murderers – and dealt with them. She’d even known one very personally.

  Not Jaki. It can’t be true, her mind kept saying. The news had pulled her mood right down. Everything in her life seemed to be falling apart.

  Twenty-Three

  Gemma decided to detour past Martin Trimble’s house on the way home to retrieve her surfboard. She didn’t want to spook Trimble till she had the results of the bloodstain testing, but she couldn’t afford to just throw assets away. She resolved to play it by ear if he was at home; if he was out, she’d grab her board and disappear.

  By the time she’d parked opposite Trimble’s house, Gemma was even more convinced the police had charged an innocent person. There were still far too many questions. she couldn’t just rule a line under the case. Jaki Hunter was her friend.

  Gemma leaned back, flinging her arm across the top of the passenger seat. She felt suddenly exhausted. What sort of life was she leading? What sort of career had she chosen?

  Was Martin Trimble another murderer? She stared across the road.

  What was she doing talking to murderers? Why was she living like this? It was the nature of her work that she was linked to people like this. Time, she thought, for a change of career. Most of her waking hours were spent in chasing cheats, liars and thieves. Once, she’d been able to find something noble in her work: the restitution of justice, and ensuring that honest people were protected from the contempt of petty criminals. She hadn’t taken into account the time she spent focusing on these crooks and sociopaths.

  She crossed the road and knocked on the door and waited, and although the place felt empty, knocked again, waiting a few more minutes to be sure. Putting Jaki out of her mind, and keeping her stride purposeful, she walked around the garage to the window the Ratbag had broken on their earlier visit. The surfboard was no longer there. Unable to resist, she hauled herself up and peered through the window. She could see immediately that the carton that had contained the bloodstained wedding gown was missing. So was Martin Trimble’s car.

  She swore under her breath. Maybe right this very minute, he was a long way away, disposing of any further evidence. Thank goodness, she thought, that she’d removed the stained dress. Without that, the eyewitness accounts of a teenage
r who’d broken into a garage and the irresponsible adult accompanying him might have had great difficulty standing up if this matter ever came to court. Even so, she hoped that her impulsive act would not end up being the factor that allowed Martin Trimble to walk free.

  She called Toby Boyd to tell him the bad news, but his mobile was out of range.

  When she got home, she found the lounge neat and tidy and Hugo and his possessions gone. He’d left a note: ‘Dear Gemma, thank you for having me. Dad says I have to stay with him now. CYA soon.’ He’d signed it with a smiley face, but Gemma wasn’t convinced.

  She put the note down, wondering if that was the real reason he’d left or whether he was distressed by her threat to report his abusers. Sorry, Hugo, she thought. She would have to take action against such sadistic violence. She looked up Hugo’s father’s number and called Angie, leaving the number with her. Remembering that Darren the escort hadn’t yet returned her call, she tried his number again. Again, Brandon answered.

  ‘I’ve been trying to contact Darren,’ she said. ‘But I’m not having any luck.’

  ‘That’s because Darren doesn’t work here any more,’ said Brandon. ‘But perhaps I could help out?’

  ‘Did he leave a forwarding number or address?’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  Brandon returned a few seconds later. ‘I can give you this number he left, but I’ve got to tell you that a couple of his other friends rang it and they couldn’t get anywhere with it.’

  ‘I’ll take it anyway,’ said Gemma, jotting it down. ‘Did Darren keep records of the clients he entertained?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘We don’t do that,’ said Brandon. ‘We just book rooms here. There are seven bedrooms. Maybe you should visit sometime,’ he said with a flirty giggle.

  She thanked him and rang off. She was tired of all this, tired of chasing up people who didn’t want to talk to her.

  She looked around the living room that had once seemed so sufficient to her happiness, the furnishings she’d chosen, the colours, the expanse of Pacific Ocean beyond the glass of the sliding doors. Once, she’d felt that here she had everything she needed. Now, it wasn’t so perfect