Emma pressed hard on the accelerator, sending the SUV hurtling straight into the path of an oncoming car. A horn blared. At the same moment, police on her phone answered. Emma swerved around the other car with its startled driver, and spoke with urgency.
‘My name is Emma Cardwell,’ she said. ‘My daughter is locked inside a childcare centre.’
Emma was screaming and shaking. The operator remained calm.
‘You said your daughter is locked in a childcare centre? Which centre? When was this?’
‘She’s at Crayon and Clay,’ cried Emma, as she swung the car out of her street and into the traffic on the main road. ‘It’s on the third floor of Gallery Main Street. I’m on my way there.’
‘Madam,’ said the operator, ‘are you on the road? You need to calm down. You’re saying your child is locked inside Crayon and Clay?’
‘Yes! I’m on my way there now.’
‘I need you to remain calm,’ the operator repeated. ‘Stay calm, and stay on the line with me. What makes you think your child has been left there?’
‘Because I didn’t get her. My husband didn’t get her. We don’t know where she is.’
Emma pressed the SUV onward, slamming on the brakes as a set of lights ahead turned red.
‘Oh, come on, come on, come on, come on,’ she said.
‘Then what we have is a missing child?’ said the operator. ‘Is that what you’re telling me, we have a missing child? You need to remain calm. You can’t do this on the road.’
‘How am I supposed to be?’ cried Emma, as another horn blared. ‘This is my little girl we’re talking about!’
DURING
Monday 12 October
8:55 pm
‘We all know what it’s like to lose sight of one of your kids at the shopping centre. I know this isn’t the same thing but that feeling . . . you wouldn’t wish it on anyone . . .’
The distance between Emma’s house and the childcare centre at Gallery Main Street was roughly eight kilometres, which in Sydney’s eastern suburbs would normally take twenty-five minutes in stop-start traffic.
Emma made it in fifteen.
She swerved from the main road onto a ramp that led up to the rooftop car park. She snatched a ticket from the box at the boom gate, and roared straight up, towards the Parents With Prams spots outside Crayon and Clay. Hurtling the car into a space, she yanked up the handbrake, opened her door, and made a desperate attempt to leave the car, but in her haste, jerking forward, she caused the seatbelt to lock. She screamed and tugged as she tried to get loose. Finding herself trapped, she stopped thrashing, and tried again.
In that moment, a patrol car swept into view, and a female duty officer alighted, saying, ‘Hey, hey. Calm down. We’re here.’
The officer was wearing a badge that said PANTON. She took hold of Emma’s upper body in the driver’s seat. ‘Steady, steady,’ she said.
Emma said: ‘Let me go, I have to get my daughter.’
Panton, in a flash of recognition, said, ‘You’re Emma Cardwell.’ Collecting herself, she said, ‘Okay, hold still. Let me get you out.’
She reached across Emma’s body, undid the seatbelt, and helped Emma to her feet. Emma was still dressed in the pale trousers and the silk blouse she had worn for the shoot on the beach; she had kicked off her shoes, but her hair was still stiff with spray. Having freed herself of the vehicle and Panton’s grip, she bolted, barefoot, towards the doors that led into Gallery Main Street.
Stumbling inside, she turned immediately to her left. There were police at the top of the pram ramp. They were facing the glass door, trying to peer into Crayon and Clay.
‘I’m here! I’m her mum,’ she shouted.
The group turned, and one of them – an older man in a loose grey suit – stepped towards her.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, taking hold of Emma by the upper arms as she raced towards them. ‘Let’s slow down a minute.’
‘Let me go,’ said Emma, as she tried to twist past him.
A duty officer – SULLIVAN, according to her name tag – said, ‘It’s Emma Cardwell.’
‘I see that, yes,’ said the man in the suit. ‘Can everyone please calm down?’
But Emma would not calm down. She twisted again, freeing herself, and hurled her body at Crayon and Clay’s door. She pushed hard but it was locked and the glass bounced back.
‘Why haven’t you opened it?’ she cried. ‘My daughter is in there.’
‘Okay, stop. Look at me.’ The man in the suit had stepped forward. ‘Stop. My name is Detective Paul Franklin. I’m CIB. Please, look at me.’
Emma turned towards him. Detective Franklin was a large man in his early sixties, with lightly freckled skin and a thin, white moustache that marched down the sides of his face, stopping dead at the base of his chin.
‘Emma? You’re Emma, aren’t you? I need you to please calm down,’ he said. ‘Can you do that for me? Can you calm down? You think your little girl is in there?’
‘She’s in there,’ said Emma. ‘She has to be.’
Franklin tightened his grip around Emma’s upper arms. ‘Okay,’ he said, as she steadied. ‘Now tell me – what is your daughter’s name?’
‘It’s Fox. Fox-Piper,’ cried Emma, thrashing her upper body as she tried to loosen Franklin’s grip.
‘Fox-Piper? Okay. All right. And how old is Fox-Piper?’
‘She’s seventeen months,’ cried Emma. ‘Oh please, can’t we just open the door?’
‘We are going to do that right now, Emma. But here is what I need you to do. Can you stand still? We don’t want to give Fox a fright, do we? We want to be calm and we want to be quiet. It’s dark inside there. You can see that, can’t you? Your daughter might be asleep, or she might be frightened. Can you be calm and still?’
Emma, growing slack in Franklin’s grip, gave a fevered nod of her head.
‘Yes?’ said Franklin.
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Good,’ said Franklin. ‘Okay. That’s good.’
He turned towards Panton, who had come up the stroller ramp behind Emma. ‘You are?’ he asked.
‘Senior Constable Sarah-Jane Panton. We – me and my partner – got the call out over the radio. We came straight here. That’s our vehicle in the car park.’
‘Okay, great,’ said Franklin. ‘Do you have a torch?’
Panton unclipped it from her belt.
‘Hold the mum,’ said Franklin.
Panton took Emma by the elbow, and made an encouraging face. Franklin switched the torch on, approached the glass, and held the light up to Crayon and Clay’s front door. It was completely dark inside. He turned to Emma. She was bent at the waist, and had her hands on her knees. With her head hanging down, she implored him, ‘Please, please open the door.’
‘Who is the key-holder for this place?’ asked Franklin. ‘Have we got anyone from centre management here who can get the door open?’
The second duty officer – Sullivan – said, ‘I’ve spoken to centre management on the phone. His name is Pascoe. Bryce Pascoe. He’s on his way over, but he’s told security to let us do what we have to do.’
‘And the key-holder? Because this place is going to be alarmed.’
‘His team – they’ve got all night security here – have already turned that off.’
‘Good,’ said Franklin. ‘And the director? I assume this place has a director, or an owner?’
‘The place is a chain. Queensland-owned,’ said Sullivan. ‘The director’s name is Noelle Preston. We’re trying to raise her. No luck yet. But I can get that door open.’
‘Good. Okay. Let’s do that,’ said Franklin. ‘But gently. We go gently.’
Sullivan retrieved a multi-tool from one of the pouches on her belt, and slid it carefully into the crevice between the wall and the door. She pulled the handle down, and Emma, seeing the door begin to open, shook herself free of Panton, and surged forward.
Franklin grabbed her by the elbows.
Emma said, ‘Stop it! Let me go!’
‘Wait,’ said Franklin, tightening his grip. ‘Emma, you promised. It’s late. There’s a good chance that Fox-Piper has fallen asleep, right? That’s why they didn’t know she was in here. Let’s all go quiet as a mouse. Let’s not frighten her.’
He felt around inside the door and turned on a light. There was a short entrance hall behind the door, with cubbyholes for children’s backpacks, hooks for small jackets, and a basket filled with lost lunchboxes. Franklin stepped inside, glancing this way and that, before moving towards the tall, childproof gate that opened onto the first of three playrooms.
He called out, ‘Fox-Piper?’
No reply.
He turned to Emma, beside him.
‘Call her name.’
Emma steadied her voice. ‘Fox?’ she called. ‘It’s Mummy. Can you hear me, Fox?’
They waited.
‘Okay, maybe she is asleep. Let’s go easy.’
Franklin opened the childproof gate, and stepped inside the room called Dinosaurs, where he found another light switch. They looked around, but Dinosaurs was empty.
‘Search the place. Quiet and careful,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to startle her.’
Panton and Sullivan moved slowly and gently through Dinosaurs, Dolphins and Dragons, searching toy boxes, and miniature toilet cubicles. They went to the outdoor play area with its rubber mats and soaring glass windows. They checked around the Baby Yoga mats; in the barrels filled with instruments for African Drumming time; they hunted through the Growing Patch, where the children grew herbs and alfalfa for the Organic Lunch Options; and even between the A-frame legs of a two-sided blackboard.
There was nothing.
Crayon and Clay was empty.
‘Where is she?’ said Emma.
Franklin scratched the side of his white moustache with his thumbnail. He took Emma by the elbow and walked her back to the entrance hall. ‘Which is her cubby?’ he said.
Emma went immediately to the cubbyhole with Fox’s picture over it.
‘This one,’ she said. ‘It’s empty. There should be a backpack in here. Pink and purple. It’s got her lunchbox in it,’ she said. ‘A spare nappy and her rabbit. Where is her rabbit?’
Franklin was about to ask what rabbit when he noticed a door with the word ‘PRIVATE’ on it over Emma’s shoulder.
‘What’s in there?’ he said.
‘That’s Noelle’s office,’ said Emma, dropping Fox’s bag to rush towards it. ‘Could she be in there?’
‘Let’s get it open,’ said Franklin.
Sullivan stepped up with her multi-tool, getting the door open in seconds. Noelle’s office was small, and crammed with furniture. There was a desk, with a desktop computer and keyboard; an office chair; three filing cabinets, stacked with tissue boxes, Wet Ones, and old sipper cups; half a dozen milk crates crammed with old musical instruments; a corkboard pinned with photographs of children and handwritten thankyou notes from the parents; sundry other bits and pieces, but there was no Fox-Piper.
‘This is crazy,’ said Emma, both hands in her hair. ‘Noelle must have her. She must be looking for us.’
‘But would Noelle do that?’ said Franklin. ‘Take your daughter home, and not tell you?’
‘To punish me, maybe,’ said Emma.
‘To punish you?’
‘Because we didn’t pick her up. They get so sick of us – not just me, but all the parents – running late. They’re always warning us: don’t be late! We’re going to start charging you if you run late.’
Franklin reached up, and scratched the corner of his moustache.
‘They’re going to start charging you, I can see that, but she’s not going to take your daughter home, Emma, not without telling you. That’s not teaching you a lesson, Emma. That would be kidnapping.’
Monday 12 October
9 pm
‘This is the only story in the country right now . . . a small child, missing from her daycare centre, her parents absolutely frantic . . .’
Pap.
On one hand, it was a stupid nickname, but on the other, it suited John Meddow perfectly. He was a pap, as in, a member of the local chapter of a worldwide club: the feared and loathed paparazzi. He was a person who made his living snapping photographs of people without their permission, to sell to magazines and websites. Unflattering photographs, usually, since that’s what every editor wanted these days: stars without make-up. Celebrities who’d put on the pork.
Pap wasn’t exactly proud of his line of work. He’d once been a bona fide photographer, working in London, where he’d been licensed to one of the big agencies, hired at massive expense to do week-long jobs in the Bahamas with ten models and a hundred different bikinis.
But nobody did those big shoots anymore. Nobody had the budget. Print was dead or dying. In desperation, Pap had turned to papping, and for a while there he had quite liked it, because back in the old days papping had been a lot of fun. You could race around getting shots of people, and you could make good money and nobody thought all that badly of you. And a page one photograph of Diana, or a pop star doing coke, or any kind of celebrity doing something scandalous, had been worth around $5000. That’s what the big newspapers used to pay, and Jesus, Pap had been able to make the rent just by hanging around at Heathrow, snapping celebrities as they got off the plane. Ask them a few questions – how was the flight? – and you’d get a story to go with your picture and you’d be set for the week.
But times had changed since Diana had got herself killed in that tunnel, and Pap had decided to leave town while the going was still good. He’d come home to Australia, knowing he’d have to cut his rates, as Australia didn’t really have that many huge celebrities.
But what had really killed his business wasn’t the shortage of talent, it was the bloody camera-phone. Plus, it was all online now. Pix from an iPhone camera were easily good enough for a website. And so Pap had found himself competing with every Tom, Dick and Harry on the street, and the price of a pap shot had fallen through the floor. A celebrity with her skirt tucked in her knickers? These days, that was worth maybe fifty bucks.
Then came a new trend, with celebrities papping themselves! Nude shots sometimes, taken in their own bathrooms, with a nice flattering light and plenty of filters, posted on Instagram, so nobody got paid. But the celebrities liked it because they had control.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, papping now had a definite smell about it. Paps had been taken to court for invasion of privacy. Occasionally, Pap would try to defend what he did for a living: If people didn’t click, I’d have nothing to sell.
Okay, sure, it might feel a bit grubby – hiding behind bushes, sending up drones – but those were the rules of the game. And it wasn’t like he was the only one playing it. All the big stars had people working for them – publicity managers, they called themselves – and the public might think they were there to protect their stars from paps, but they often provided the best tip-offs. Take Maven, as an example. She was one of Pap’s best contacts, regularly calling him with tips on where to find her stars, to pap them without them knowing. How many times had Pap hung up from a call from Maven, thinking, Jesus, I wouldn’t want you as a friend? Plenty of times! Just a week earlier, she’d called to tell him to get down to a little beach near Emma Cardwell’s house because Emma was playing on the sand with her kids, and she’d probably be in her bathing suit, and she was looking a little chubby . . .
That’s not very nice, is it?
But if the pix were any good, it could well be a nice little earner. He’d be able to sell them to The Snoop, no problem. And he understood why Maven did it: ‘All publicity is good publicity!’ So Pap had gone down there with a long lens and hidden in the bushes, and sure enough, he’d found Emma playing with her little girl – Fox, Wolf, he could never remember – and he’d shot off some frames. They weren’t going to be worth a fortune. There had been a time when pictures of Emma Cardwell ha
d been worth quite a bit. He’d once got five hundred bucks for a shot of her with her skirt caught in the back of her knickers. But Emma’s value, speaking pictorially, had been eroding for years, especially since Saturn had hired that sexy young thing, Cassie Clay, for a new spot on Brew. But if the pix turned out to be worth two hundred bucks, well, that was two hundred bucks he’d have in his pocket. Not quite old Emma Cardwell dollars, but a nice payday nonetheless, and God knows he needed the money. Pap was well into his fifties, but he still had to make a living. Alone in his flat some days, he rued the money he’d made and spent. In London, especially, he’d lived like there was no tomorrow and now tomorrow had arrived, and he was stuck living in a one-bedroom unit in a blond-brick, 1970s building with peeling paint, and grout between the bathroom tiles starting to fall away. At least he owned it. An aunt had left it to him. But it wasn’t exactly glamorous.
Still, it was home, and home was where he was that night, Monday 12 October, around 9 pm – when his phone started flashing. Pap looked down from his console – he’d been playing computer games – and saw a message from an old journo mate – redundant, of course – who was apparently texting from the pub down the road.
What’s up at Gallery Main Street? Cops everywhere.
Pap sent back a question mark but got no reply.
He groaned to himself. His apartment was in one of the tall buildings clustered around the shopping centre. Was it worth getting up from the armchair to go out on the balcony and have a look? Probably not. But what if it was something? Pap hauled his carcass out of his dead aunt’s old floral armchair and slid back the balcony door, and his mate was right. There were a couple of cop cars parked at the base of the shopping centre, and their lights were spinning. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t a traffic situation, although some poor bastard in uniform had been assigned a glowing rod, and was having to direct traffic away from the car park ramp.
Odd.
Okay, what was going on? In an effort to get a better view, Pap went back inside, pulled a camera with a long lens out of his threadbare canvas bag and aimed it over the balcony. Most of the shopping centre was closed. He could see that by the number of lights that were off. But the daycare centre on the third floor was lit up like a Christmas tree. What was the place called again? Clay and Chalk? Crayon and Pencil? Pap focused his lens, trying to get a clear shot, but from where he was standing it was impossible to make out what, if anything, was happening inside. The windows were covered with starfish cut-outs and jaunty letters. Jesus, was it worth getting dressed and going outside? Probably not, but Pap was old school. When you saw cops, you went and checked it out, simple as that. He stepped back inside his apartment and pulled on a crumpled shirt and jeans. He checked his bag for equipment, shoved his feet into old sneakers and went down in the building’s slow elevator to the foyer, and from there onto the street, all the while thinking, why would the childcare centre be lit up at this hour? Kids don’t go to daycare at night, do they?
The Ones You Trust Page 6
