‘What did Liam say?’ said Franklin.
‘He said he’d made a big mistake. He was trying to fix it. I said, “Liam, she’s always been so good to you. It’s her little girl and she’s a mum.”’
Ellen began to cry. Franklin looked around for tissues, and pushed a box in her direction.
‘I was beside myself. And Liam . . . he knew he’d done something wrong.’
‘And did he explain why?’ asked Franklin.
‘No. He kept saying he’d fix it. Fox had got up early, before dawn. I let her watch some cartoons. I gave her some toast. I let her play with my dolls. She got sleepy and I put her down for a nap, and Liam said he would take a picture so Emma would know she was safe.’
Franklin thought, that would be the picture of Fox on the pink sheet, in the room with the framed dolphin photograph on the wall. He took his phone out and showed the image to Ellen.
‘This one?’ he asked.
‘That’s it,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘I was angry with him, saying, let’s take her back, Liam. I told him, we can explain. But then he left again.’
To send the photograph, Franklin thought, and make the ransom demand.
‘Then he came back home,’ Ellen continued, ‘and he said, “It’s nearly over, Mum.” But he was pacing and I didn’t know what to do. I was angry with him. Fox was still sleeping, and I had the TV on, not this one, the big one, showing him – “Look at all the trouble you’ve caused.” And he turned that off, saying, “What if she wakes up and sees her mum on TV?” But I ignored him and put the headphones on, because I wanted to know what was happening, and he left me in the lounge room. I didn’t hear what happened, but the husband, he must have come here, and kicked my door in, and I don’t know if Fox heard something and woke up, or what happened, but I came out, and Liam was out the back with the dogs, and little Fox was on the porch, and the husband was here, and Liam, he wouldn’t hurt a fly but . . .’
She pushed the empty mug back.
‘And he shot him,’ she said. ‘The husband, he shot my son.’
Friday 16 October
Noon
Maven sat down in an expensive swivel chair at the end of Stellar’s boardroom table. She was wearing her familiar wide-legged pants and a cream silk blouse. At the other end of the table sat Jock Nelson, legs encased in loose, grey pants. Maven pulled a packet of nicotine gum from her tote, popped one out, and began to chew. Neither of them spoke for a minute, then Jock asked, ‘Well, what the fuck do we do now?’
‘It’s a tricky one,’ said Maven.
Jock slapped his hands down on the shiny table top.
‘A tricky one? For fuck’s sake, Maven, you have a way of understating things. Emma Cardwell’s husband killed a man. Shot him dead.’
‘Yes.’
Jock rubbed his over-sized greying head. ‘You know, Maven,’ he said, ‘I used to think PJ falling drunk out of a taxi was pretty bad. But what did I know? Now we’ve got a host on the couch whose husband is an actual murderer. Plus we’ve got two dead dogs. Why did they have to shoot the dogs?’
‘Brandon is not a murderer. It was self-defence. He was protecting the life of his beautiful little girl. And the paramedics had to get into the cage to get at Liam’s body. The cops had no choice but to shoot the dogs. They weren’t going to give their master up.’
‘Nice scene for a film, Maven. Not so nice for breakfast TV. I’ll say one thing for Emma’s Rambo husband: he’s a nice shot. Clean through the front of the skull, and all caught on tape.’
‘He was protecting Fox.’
‘Fox. Of course he was. You know, I nearly said Wolf once. Fox, Seal, what have they got, a fucking farmyard? The whole situation is fucked. What do you think we should do?’
Maven went to speak, but Jock interrupted her. ‘This is not PJ making a total dick of himself. You can apologise for being drunk,’ he said. ‘Viewers love a bit of bad behaviour. But there’s bad behaviour and there’s blowing a man’s brains out. I mean, Jesus, what are we meant to do here? Get Emma back on the couch so she can explain to people, “I apologise. Emma’s Hashtag Murdering Husband”.’ Jock looked up at the ceiling. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know he’d picked the gun up,’ said Maven. ‘He had it stored in the garage. He must have grabbed it when I went back upstairs. He told me once it was never loaded. Remember when he fired at the drone? He said then, it’s never loaded. But he’s from Texas. He had ammunition somewhere. I figured we’d get there, and Liam might try to go over the back fence, which would have been fine, we’d get footage of that, and we’d get Fox safe in her dad’s arms. Things got out of hand.’
‘Out of hand?’ said Jock, slapping his thigh. ‘Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that, Maven. Shooting somebody dead, that is pretty out of hand. That was a seriously dumb decision of yours. What if the kid had got hurt?’
‘Fox is fine,’ she said.
‘Pure luck,’ said Jock.
‘On the upside, the footage from Pap clears Brandon. I’ve spoken to the people in the Coroner’s office. It’s early days but they’ve looked at the pictures from every angle. Everyone says the same thing: he had no choice. Liam’s about to open the gate and he’s already let go of the dogs. Brandon saved his daughter’s life. And we had sky-high ratings.’
‘Yes. We got lucky.’
‘There’s going to be an inquest, but there’s almost no chance that charges will be laid.’
‘Have the cops told Emma that? But what about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Maven, I know you’re used to doing whatever the hell you want, but you got a tip on where that kid was and you did not tell the cops. You told a cameraman! And our reporter. And Pap’s in the same boat, mate. What makes you think that they won’t charge you?’
‘They don’t care about that. Not after I reminded them how they’d never even considered Liam a suspect!’
‘You’re Teflon,’ chuckled Jock. ‘Or you hope you are!’
‘Let me worry about that. In the meantime, I think we absolutely can get away with running a TV special. “Finding Fox”. Think about it. A documentary-style show where we explain exactly what happened. We’ve got great footage. Dramatic music. Emma on screen with Ellen. It would be ratings gold. I’ve been keeping an eye on social media. Public opinion is ninety . . . okay, eighty per cent on our side.’
‘I’ve got no problem with doing a special,’ said Jock. ‘It’s after the special I’m worried about. Are we putting Emma back on the couch with PJ and the Cash Rabbit? Are we supposed to pretend her husband hasn’t blown somebody’s brains out? How does that work, Maven?’
Maven raised her hand to smooth an extravagant quiff of silver hair away from her eyes. ‘No, the special is one thing. But you’re right, Jock, Emma can’t go back on breakfast TV.’
‘Of course she can’t! I mean, fuck. Breakfast hosts . . . they’re supposed to be breezy. At a bare minimum, they’re not supposed to be around dead dogs. What happens next time Emma’s got to go to the opening night of Matilda the Fucking Musical? Is the husband going to be on her arm? Are we going to have Emma demonstrating the fucking Pamper Pooch Retractable Dog Lead when there’s pictures of those dead dogs all over the fucking internet? And do you know what else, Maven?’
‘Tell me.’
Jock glanced this way and that, as if scoping the empty room for eavesdroppers. He lowered his voice. ‘Men get a taste for it,’ he said.
Maven’s mind tended to work quickly when it came to Jock’s random thoughts, but even she didn’t understand what he was getting at at that moment.
‘A taste for . . . what?’
‘Blood,’ said Jock. His eyes widened as he leaned across the table. ‘I’ve read about this. People get this thing – blood lust. Like a dog that’s bitten someone. You have to get it put down because it’s got the scent. It’s the same with humans. I saw a program on serial killers. They all said the same thing: you do one, you’ve got to do
another one. It becomes a sport.’
Maven considered what to say – How did a bloke as dumb as you get to the position you’re in? Do you actually believe all the shit you read on the internet? And can you please remind me never to let you talk to anyone about this, ever? – and decided to say nothing.
Jock leaned back in his chair.
‘Look,’ said Maven, ‘we’re about to go into the Christmas break. By the time we get back, all the critics, all the social media dickheads will have had their say, and you know what? It might well be that Emma decides not to come back.’
Jock swivelled in his chair. ‘Fat chance,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to dynamite people off that couch.’
‘This is different,’ said Maven. ‘My feeling is that Emma is going to want to go. Fox is going to need her, and there is damage to the other kids. Their father killed a man. That’s going to take some processing. Emma’s not going to want them in the public eye, which they will be forever, if she stays on.’
Jock looked up, his expression hopeful. ‘You think she might go?’
‘My guess is yes. She’s going to want to show she’s still on top of things first. And she’s going to want to say thank you during the special.’
‘To me?’
‘To the public, Jock. To everyone who retweeted and shared and kept a look out and sent prayers.’
Jock looked put out. ‘Nobody thanks me,’ he said, sulkily. ‘I would have put up the money. Bitcoin. What even is that? We would never have got that money back, you know. I can feel it.’
‘Probably not,’ Maven conceded. ‘But we will make a million advertising dollars on the special. The main thing is to encourage Emma to go once it’s over. And then we have to pretend we don’t want her to go. So let me start feeding the media. How she really should be focused on her family from now on, and so on.’
Jock grunted, apparently satisfied. ‘Okay. But no dead dogs on the special. No body bags, either. And just make sure my ad team sell as many ads as they can so we make a bit of money. No cheapies, not even for the regulars.’
Maven popped another nicotine gum on top of the one she was already chewing. ‘Don’t feel guilty,’ she said. ‘Emma’s had a great run. It’s not our fault the Texan pulled out a pistol.’
Jock crossed his hands over his stomach. ‘I’ve got to tell you, I was impressed,’ he said, smiling. ‘We should have a more Texan approach to crime in this country. All the pussyfooting around we do, second chances, third chances, nobody ever going to prison.’
Maven, rising from her chair, said, ‘I don’t disagree.’
Jock chuckled. Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket for his phone, he said, ‘You don’t disagree. Such a good phrase that one, Maven. I don’t disagree. You don’t necessarily agree with me, but since I’m the boss here, you don’t disagree. It’s the handiest phrase you’ve got. I think I’ll pinch it for my home life. I don’t disagree, darling. That’s going to work a charm.’
Maven removed the nicotine gumball from her mouth and stuffed it into an empty space in the packet. ‘I don’t have copyright on it,’ she said. ‘What’s mine is yours, as you know.’
Wednesday 25 November
8 pm
(Six Weeks Later)
TWO MOTHERS.
UNITED IN SORROW.
The ads for the Finding Fox special began running ten days out from the event. Maven herself designed them: first came the black screen, with dramatic words in white, breaking into scenes from the kidnap drama, including the cops outside Crayon and Clay; Emma’s shocking appearance outside her home on the day of the press conference; pictures of Fox in her yellow gumboots; the exclusive footage of PJ ready to burst into Liam’s house; Emma carrying Fox out the front door, with Fox holding her arms up, like she was the star of a show . . .
Then more words, again in white:
A Special Television Event.
FINDING FOX.
‘Put it on high rotation,’ she told the programmers. ‘I want two million people watching this.’
Maven also plastered the ad all over Facebook and Twitter to gauge the public’s reaction. Some bloggers were, to her mind, full of it, saying, ‘This looks very much like somebody trying to exploit that child’s trauma’ and ‘Is this really such a good idea? A man’s dead.’
Maven, scrolling through the commentary on her iPad with Matty at her elbow, said, ‘Remind me, have we booked Liam’s mother on a holiday? I don’t want anyone asking her how much she got paid.’
Matty nodded.
‘She’s been on a cruise since it happened,’ he said. ‘And we’ve got her booked on another one as soon as it’s all over. I’m speaking to her all the time. She’s nervous about seeing Emma again. I told her not to worry. Emma blames herself. All those nannies.’
‘Speaking of which, have they dried out Airlie?’
‘She’s at a rehab centre in Thailand. Enjoying it very much, from what I gather. The tab for the mini bar has been extraordinary.’
‘They have a mini bar at rehab?’
‘I know, right? And we’re paying for it.’
‘Sounds like my kind of place.’
Ellen arrived at Stellar in a chauffeur-driven car, cheeks and nose slightly burnt from the cruise. Matty accompanied her to Hair and Make-up.
‘I’ve never had my make-up done before,’ she said, turning her face this way and that in the bulb-framed mirror. ‘Will Emma be coming here, too?’
Matty said, ‘No, no, she’s already done. She’s reading the script. It will be better if you see each other for the first time on set. I’m going to see her now.’
He skipped down the corridor to Emma’s dressing room, finding her looking glamorous, and not even a little bit nervous. At Maven’s insistence, she had been to see a counsellor – Maven’s choice – several times since the kidnap and they had talked about the wisdom of doing a special interview. The counsellor had agreed that it might give Emma closure, a word Emma had told Matty she hated, and doubted she would ever achieve, not while she was still the tragic host of Cuppa whose daughter had been snatched while she was at work.
‘You ready, Emma?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Then I’ll go and see if we’re ready for you.’
He walked the hall to the studio. The bright and breezy Cuppa set had been stripped in favour of a space more like a comfortable lounge room, with matching armchairs in front of a fake mantelpiece, topped with flowers and a flickering candle.
‘This is so lovely. Remember, nice tight shots,’ Matty told the cameraman. ‘We’re going for intimate.’
The cameraman nodded, and the floor manager said, ‘Whenever you’re ready, we can go.’
The studio fell quiet as Emma entered the room, followed by Ellen, from the other side of the stage. The interview wasn’t being shown live, but Matty was hoping to capture as much of the emotion as possible in one take.
Emma stretched her hands out, and took Ellen’s plumper hands in her own.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said.
They were a study in contrasts: Ellen was older than Emma and her life had been harder. The make-up girls had made her look better than she had looked for years, probably, but the red of her lipstick was already bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth. Her hair was cheaply dyed, and rough from poor treatment over many decades, and her voice, when she spoke, had an old smoker’s edge. There was a distance between them – class, opportunity, money – that the camera had captured and magnified.
‘I’m glad to see you again,’ said Ellen.
They settled into the armchairs, with Emma radiant in a pink pants suit and silver pumps. She asked Ellen to describe for the audience – non-existent, at that point – what exactly had happened in the days before her daughter had been taken.
‘It was all very strange,’ said Ellen, as the camera zoomed in on her worn hands. ‘Liam told me that you needed somebody to take care of Fox, just for one night, w
hile your house got sprayed – not that I’m saying you have roaches!’
‘It’s okay,’ said Emma, with an encouraging smile.
‘I knew you trusted Liam. He told me, “Mum, Emma’s always had nannies. The kids are used to staying with strangers.” And I knew you worked a lot and weren’t always there.’
The camera switched to Emma. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry. The kids had seen too many tears already. But she could feel more of them, forming in the corners of her eyes.
‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘My children haven’t had the best of me.’
‘No, that isn’t what I meant. You’re a good mum, Emma!’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, you’re right. There have been so many occasions when I’ve just had to leave it to others, and I’ve got to be honest and admit that. Fox left that childcare centre with a stranger because that’s what she was used to doing. And I’m so sorry that you . . .’
‘Don’t apologise to me,’ said Ellen, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Why are you apologising to me?’
‘I’m just sad it’s ended this way. For both of us.’
‘But there is something I wanted to tell you,’ said Ellen. ‘Fox was really happy, Emma. Please don’t take it the wrong way that she wasn’t missing you, but I want you to know that the whole time she was with me, she was perfectly fine, not upset or anything.’
Maven, sitting in the wings with Matty, murmured, ‘We should probably cut that. We don’t need to remind people how much Emma’s never been there.’
The Ones You Trust Page 23
