Maven turned to look, taking in Franklin’s height – a near match for her own – and his bulk; his white moustache, bright against a red face; his crumpled suit, and the bulge of a holstered gun beneath his jacket. She took a gold business card holder out of her tote, and slid one out.
‘It says Sally but I’m Maven,’ she said. ‘I’m with Stellar. What’s going on?’
She waited, as Franklin took his time taking, then examining the card. ‘Emma’s little girl is missing,’ he said finally.
Emma said, ‘Somebody took her from daycare, Maven. We don’t know who, and we don’t know why.’
Maven nodded, as if she somehow, instinctively, understood. ‘A kidnapping,’ she said. ‘What do they want? A ransom?’
‘Jesus, Maven,’ Brandon said sharply.
‘What? That’s an obvious question, isn’t it? Don’t worry. Whatever it is, we’ll pay it.’
‘They haven’t asked for anything,’ said Emma.
‘But she’s missing and you don’t know who has her? And you’ve already called the cops . . . May I ask what your media strategy is?’
Franklin handed the card back. ‘We have a media team,’ he said.
‘Not for something like this you don’t,’ said Maven. ‘The minute this breaks, it’s going to be everywhere. You’re going to have every reporter in the country converging on this house, sticking their nose into your investigation, scaring off contacts. But don’t worry, I can handle it. I know everyone in this town.’
She waited, watching as Franklin studied her face and her high-swept platinum hair.
‘NSW Police Media will handle it,’ he said. Maven went to say more, but Franklin turned away, and spoke to Emma, saying: ‘Where has Lena gone?’
‘Lena’s upstairs with the boys,’ said Brandon. ‘I’ve just been up there. They’re desperate to come down and see their mum. I’ve told them it’s important stuff she’s doing, but you have to let her go up. Hudson’s not an idiot. He knows something’s up. Seal does too.’
‘Well, it’s very exciting down here,’ said Maven, looking around. ‘All these police. Children like police, don’t they?’
Franklin glanced in Maven’s direction, then at Emma, then back to Maven.
‘You’re keen to help?’ he asked. ‘Go upstairs and sit with the boys. Read them a book. Send Lena down.’
Maven arched her eyebrows. ‘Children don’t like me very much,’ she said. It was a practised line, one she enjoyed delivering, especially around parents. She had no kids of her own, and wanted none, because what were children, exactly? A complete drain on your finances and energy. Screaming through the night when all anyone wanted to do was sleep. Go The Fuck To Sleep. Wasn’t that the book everyone went on about? Go the fuck to sleep, or shut the fuck up?
‘I’m sure you can handle it,’ said Franklin. He turned to Emma. ‘How old are they again?’
‘Seven and five,’ she said anxiously. ‘But don’t send up Maven. That won’t work.’
Franklin glanced back at Maven, who employed her resting face. He turned to Panton. ‘Okay, you go up and send the nanny down, will you?’
Panton nodded, and made for the staircase. They waited in silence until Lena came down. Maven recognised her as the nanny she’d seen around the place a few times, helping Emma with the children. She was wearing cotton trousers and sensible shoes and a cardigan. No make-up. No jewellery except a God-awful brooch. What had Emma called her? Lena, the Granny-Nanny. And where had she come from? Some kind of agency that specialised in older women – grannies who had already raised their kids? – and why had Emma wanted that? Because young girls – au pairs – were forever wanting to go off travelling with their boyfriends or something?
Fair enough, but Maven had her own theory. Young nannies were hot. They got around in short-shorts and Thailand tans and bikini tops. And Emma’s husband had lately had a bit of time on his hands.
Well, if that had been the issue, Emma had well and truly solved the problem, Maven thought, as Lena pulled the sides of her cardigan together.
Maven said, ‘If you don’t need me any further, I’m going to step outside and call Jock Nelson. He owns Stellar. I’ve notified him as to what’s happening but he should probably be here. And I’m going to have to call PJ.’
‘Why PJ?’ Brandon asked.
‘Because I’ll need to get him ready,’ said Maven. ‘Emma is his Work Wife. The press isn’t going to be able to get in here, so they’re going to ambush him. You know what they’re like. Jackals. He needs to be briefed.’
Emma put her right thumb against her right eyelid and pressed, like she was in pain. ‘She’s right,’ she said finally.
‘Good girl,’ said Maven. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll call Matty too, and the newsroom. We’ll have all hands on deck at Stellar. Whatever you need us to do, we’ll do. We’re going to get her back, Emma.’ Maven turned to Franklin. ‘Which brings us to the obvious,’ she said. ‘When’s the press conference?’
Monday 12 October
10:50 pm
‘We haven’t yet seen or heard from Emma and her husband . . . We don’t know how they’re holding up. It must be absolutely excruciating, not knowing where their daughter is . . .’
The press conference.
Franklin didn’t want to admit it but Maven was right: at some point, assuming Fox was not quickly found, they were going to have to have a press conference. Franklin felt a sense of dread. Unlike some cops, he didn’t necessarily hate the media. Individual reporters – the ones without tickets on themselves – could be quite useful, and the media’s involvement in this case would be crucial. Only the media could get the message out – a child is missing – to a wide enough audience. At the same time, what was with the media’s nasty habit of turning crime into some kind of morbid reality show?
Horror and loss. They couldn’t get enough of it. They’d turn up at a disaster – a terrorist attack, or a lunatic with a gun – and the first question would always be: How many dead? Like it was a competition. Live-cross reporters would say: ‘We’re looking at twelve people dead . . . that number could go higher, of course . . .’ Fair enough, there was good and bad in every bunch, same with cops, but the buzz the media got out of their job, it wasn’t normal, especially in a case where they wouldn’t get to control the ending.
A bushfire goes out, sure, go ahead, count the dead, and let’s all talk about bushfire prevention.
A shooting spree ends, let’s cover the funerals, and start talking about why all these lunatics are out on parole.
But a kidnap? If this even was a kidnap? Nobody understands kidnapping. It’s random, it’s terrifying, and the reasons – ‘I wanted a girl to hold in my cellar for a few years’; or, ‘We were looking for a white kid for a sick video we’re making’; or, ‘We thought they’d just pay up but we put him in the boot and he suffocated’ – were always shocking.
Where and how would this story end? The media would all be hoping for the perfect ending: Emma’s little girl would be found and they would get images of her running straight into her mum’s arms, with the soaring music in the background, like when a lost kid gets found in the bush.
But what if that wasn’t how things happened? What if Fox wasn’t coming home tonight, or any night, or ever? Because that happened sometimes, too: a small child would disappear from the front garden, or the beach, or from their own bed, and they were never seen again. And what did all those stories have in common?
No note. No ransom demands.
Which was the same as this situation. No ransom, not yet. No demands.
Franklin considered the situation: if Fox had been collected from Crayon and Clay at one o’clock, she’d now been missing ten hours. Ten hours without a ransom note. Did that mean Fox was not coming home?
He pushed the thought back.
He searched Brandon’s desk for a remote. The TV was already tuned to the Stellar Network. They were showing a repeat of some kind of cooking program – chefs in
paper hats were leaning over plates – but as Franklin stood watching, there it was, travelling along the bottom of the screen:
AMBER ALERT. This is a CHILD ABDUCTION ALERT.
BREAKING NEWS.
NSW POLICE have issued an urgent AMBER ALERT for the daughter of Emma Cardwell, of Cuppa.
EMMA CARDWELL’S DAUGHTER MISSING.
AMBER ALERT FOR FOX-PIPER CARDWELL COLE.
Good, he thought. They’ve got that done. He strode from the room, taking Emma by the elbow as he went through the door.
‘Now the alert is live, which one is Fox’s room?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ asked Emma, confused.
‘I want to see it.’
Emma led him up the hall to a doorway. She felt around the inside wall for a switch, bringing the room into light.
‘Leave me alone here,’ Franklin said. ‘Go back to Panton. She will keep you up to date.’
‘But why did you want to come in here?’ asked Emma. ‘Fox didn’t go missing from here.’
‘I want to think.’
Franklin watched as Emma retreated down the hall. He had a surreal feeling of knowing her well, so familiar was she to him, from her show, from the billboards around town, and the ads on the sides of buses. He’d been watching her face closely. She was clearly fearful, but holding up as well as anyone would in an awful situation.
Too well? Franklin was experienced enough to know that he had to at least consider the possibility – and early – that Emma, her husband, even the nanny, the childcare director, knew more than they were saying. But try as he might, Franklin’s instincts were not excited by Emma. The way she was behaving – occasionally reeling as waves of nausea washed over her – she’d have to be the best actress in the world, and Franklin had watched Cuppa. He knew she wasn’t.
There was a jaunty dolphin mobile made of grey felt hanging above Fox’s crib. Franklin reached out and touched it, and the dolphins danced on their strings. The nursery was lavishly furnished. Fox was a much-loved, much-wanted child. But still, people got angry. They had fights. They had accidents, and covered them up.
He crossed the room, and opened the curtain. It should have been dark outside, but it wasn’t. The media had arrived, with their lights and their cameras; creating a jammed convoy of satellite trucks. Bedlam. It was going to be bedlam.
Franklin closed the curtain. Twenty-four hours. That was the magic number. The first twenty-four hours in any investigation are critical. Fox had been missing for maybe eight hours before anyone realised she was missing meaning he was already behind where he wanted to be. And nothing was adding up the way it should. He pressed the call back number for Detective Rout and was relieved when she picked up.
‘What do you have?’ he asked.
Rout’s voice came back: Noelle’s lawyer had arrived, and she had given her statement repeating what she had told Franklin back at Crayon and Clay, which was that she had gone out for lunch – fairly standard – at 12:30 pm and had tacked on a mani-pedi, stretching her lunch break out to 2 pm – not technically allowed – and that she had not really noticed, when she got back, that Fox wasn’t there.
‘They have fifty kids,’ said Rout. ‘You’re not going to keep track of them all.’
‘Isn’t that their job?’
‘Okay the kids come and go all day. Some leave at lunchtime, some at 3 pm which is closer to school time and some are there until the final siren. The main thing for the staff is: has everyone been signed out at the end of the day? And Noelle says yes, everyone was signed out, she checks the book herself, all was in order, so she locked up and went home.’
‘Do we know who was on when Fox was collected?’
‘There were ten staff on, including two casuals. We’ve been ringing around and so far we’ve found one who says she saw Fox go. We’re bringing her in.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Let me look.’ Franklin waited, listening to the sound of paper rustling as Rout turned the pages in her notebook. ‘Okay. Maria Rashid. We’ve located her. She’s beside herself. Noelle says she’s three months out of TAFE and she’s worked at Crayon and Clay she thinks maybe three times. She’s on a roster of people they can call when they’re down a staff member and today they were down two, which doesn’t sound unusual, like there are always staff sick, because the kids are sick. Anyway, Maria says she remembers a woman coming for Fox in the middle of the day.’
‘Does she know who?’
‘No. She doesn’t know anyone.’
‘But this woman signed her out?’
‘According to this Maria, yes. We’re bringing her in to get a statement and description but one thing she already said was that Fox went willingly. And also that the woman went straight to Fox’s cubby and got her bag and one of Fox’s toys, and she was waving it over the gate. If it is a kidnapping it’s not random. She knew who she wanted.’
‘But why did this Maria let her go? Without first checking she’s on the list?’
‘She can’t explain that. We need to drill down. I’ve only spoken to her on the phone. She’s hysterical. She thinks she’s going to prison.’
‘She might be,’ said Franklin.
‘I don’t know. She was rushed off her feet. I’m thinking it could be a perfect storm: the director’s not there, there’re casuals on, half of them, from what they are saying, are doing toilet time or breaking up fights in the outdoor area or else they’re in different rooms, and this one is unfamiliar with the kids.’
‘Okay, well let me know when she gets there. And the CCTV?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘You’ll keep me posted?’
‘You bet.’
Franklin hung up the phone and mulled over the call. Somebody had come for Fox, and the staff had let her go. How likely was that? At best, he thought, it was possible, which was all that mattered right now. It was possible. And then it had been well after 8 pm before anyone had noticed that Fox was missing because the dad had forgotten to collect her.
How likely was that?
To Franklin’s mind, it was again only possible, but Franklin could imagine the media trying to digest that detail:
Her own father forgot to collect her . . . but somebody else already had? But who?
Yes, good question. Who?
Could it have been somebody sent by either parent? If so, why were they now saying they didn’t know who picked her up? Had that somebody brought Fox home? Had something happened to her in this house?
If so, what?
Also, what of Emma’s other children? The boys. When was the last time they had seen their little sister? Franklin paused a beat, allowing the trail of this thought to wash over him: could one of them have hurt Fox?
Was that what was going on here?
Monday 12 October
11 pm
‘What can we say? Go home and hug your children. This terrible situation really brings home how precious they are . . .’
Franklin returned to Brandon’s office – now the situation room – to find Emma staring up at the TV screen. The BREAKING NEWS ticker was running across the bottom – CUPPA STAR EMMA CARDWELL’S DAUGHTER IN KIDNAP DRAMA – with a number for people to call.
Panton was sitting beside Emma, gently holding her hand.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We may have something. One of the women at Crayon and Clay says somebody did come for your daughter.’
‘Who?’ asked Emma, leaping up.
‘We don’t yet know. She – the staff member – is on her way into police headquarters. They’ll get a description. She seemed to think it was somebody who knew Fox, who went to her cubby, and Fox went with her. You’re absolutely sure you can’t think of anyone it could be?’
‘I just can’t,’ cried Emma. ‘God, what did she look like? Who was it?’
‘We’ll get all that,’ said Franklin. Turning to Panton, he asked: ‘What about here? Anything useful come in?’
‘We’re getting a lot of calls,’ Panton
said. ‘Literally hundreds of calls, and it’s late.’
Franklin nodded. He understood what Panton meant. It was late enough for the bulk of the viewing public to be in bed and yet the call centre was swamped. What was the morning going to be like?
Oh my God, I saw the news, and I just had to call . . . She’s my favourite on the morning shows!
I don’t have any information, but I wanted to tell Emma I love her!
‘We need these newsreaders to tell people not to call unless they’ve got some information that can help,’ said Franklin.
Panton helped Emma back to her chair. ‘I’ll be back,’ she reassured her. ‘Let me just go and speak to Police Media again, tell them to stress that.’
Emma nodded her thanks. Her face was draining of her television make-up as the hours wore on, and Franklin had a sense of her growing younger, more vulnerable, with the night.
He pulled out a chair. ‘Look, while we wait for this description, I want to do a proper rundown of your day. Where’s your husband?’
‘Yes! We have to tell him. He’s upstairs with the boys. I went up too. I’m sorry! I had to see them. We’re just telling them it’s a mix-up. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Franklin, although privately, he thought it wasn’t fine. There was no real way for him to speak to the boys before morning. He wouldn’t be able to get the kind of help – child psychologists and discreet cameras – that he’d need. He didn’t want too many people talking to them about what might have happened, distorting the story, confusing things, but Emma was their mum.
You’d need a pretty good reason to keep upset kids from their mum.
Franklin strode to the doorway and called out to Sullivan to bring Brandon down. He opened his notebook and clicked the top of his pen.
‘Let’s start with you,’ he said. ‘I want to know if anything happened today that was out of the ordinary.’
Emma bit the inside of her lip. ‘You mean, from the start?’
The Ones You Trust Page 11
