Phan: We’ve tapped your phones, Joanna. We’ve taken your laptops and need your passwords: Facebook, email etc.
Joanna: Okay.
Phan: We’ll need access to your houses in Scotland – can you arrange that?
Joanna: Of course. My friend Kirsty can let you in.
Phan: Good, just in case we find something there that might help. If you think of anything else, please let me know straight away. I’ll be at the house tonight and tomorrow. We’ll have someone there while this is going on, security. You’re going to be hounded. I suggest you stay inside unless you’re with one of us. And we’ll set up a search base at the hall across from the primary school in Point Lonsdale. We’ll do everything we can.
Joanna: Thanks. Thank you , Detective. Is that it?
END INTERVIEW
Joanna read her statement through, as requested, and signed it at the bottom. The police escorted them back to Elizabeth’s.
She managed to trick herself into believing her story, but only for a few hours, hours that passed in a frenzied blur of snapshots.
Screaming at the shop assistant to phone the police.
Alistair running around the street, yelling, searching, doing all the things parents have been criticised for not doing in the past.
A female officer with red hair arriving a few minutes later and giving her an unexpected and painfully kind hug.
Journalists, filming.
More police cars arriving. Two officers knocking on doors in the street.
Neighbours gathering around the shop, peering at her, at Alistair, at the car.
Alistair mentioning something about a Yoot and a Japa-something, whatever they were.
Giving her statement in a small square interview room, Alistair’s words coming out with surprising ease. The thirty-something Vietnamese detective firm, but sympathetic.
Arriving at Elizabeth Robertson’s home to find her grey with shock, but active to the point of manic, making tea for the police, going over what had happened, going over the possibilities, banging her fist on the table about what they should be doing.
Being grabbed by Alistair in the bathroom and told what to say to her best friend, Kirsty – ‘No, don’t come over. Your dad’s ill, he needs you. Please, for me, don’t come.’
Police tapping phones and eating the banana cake a neighbour dropped over.
Chloe arriving with her dark hair and deep eyes, like her dad, like Noah.
Alistair hugging Chloe. Chloe awkward with her dad.
Chloe ignoring Joanna. Joanna avoiding Chloe.
Chloe accusing Joanna. Joanna welcoming it.
Opening the curtain and peering outside to see Alexandra waiting in her car, fresh and pretty, her blonde hair now hippy-short.
Aching to go outside and talk to her, tell her what had happened, ask for her help.
Catching each other’s eyes for a moment.
Staring and staring at Alexandra. Beautiful, lucky Alexandra.
The frenzy blurred Joanna’s reality for a few hours, but once everyone left, and she was alone in the house with Alistair and his mother, it jerked back into focus. She lay on the double bed in Alistair’s old room and thought about the moment that she killed her son, replaying it in her head. She was sitting on her seat, she was opening a bottle, she was giving him medicine that he was allergic to with a little white spoon. She was killing him.
She wanted to confess. She wanted to die. In that order.
Elizabeth Robertson was in her bedroom praying. A dark chant hissed through the house. Joanna covered her ears with a pillow.
When Alistair came in, he handed Joanna a glass of water and two tablets, which she took without asking what they were. There was a long silence before she said: ‘This is wrong. I’m not going to do it.’
Alistair sat on the bed beside her and held her hand. ‘We lost our son. We don’t deserve to lose everything else as well. It’s not wrong. We’re not hurting anyone.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. What we’re doing is making sure there’s no more suffering – for Chloe, but for us too. We’re not bad. We’re not evil.’
She nuzzled into his chest. ‘I’m not evil?’
‘You’re good, my darling. You’re good. And it’ll be over soon.’
17
JOANNA
16 February
It woke her an hour or so later, the cry. She felt her breasts harden as the noise grew louder. She held them, they were burning, bursting. She got out of bed, and followed the sound. She walked into the hall, towards the front door, and opened it. The sun was up. It was cold, at least twenty-five degrees cooler than when they arrived. She stood on the veranda and listened. It was faint now, but definitely coming from somewhere across the road. Barefoot, she followed the sound, the pain in her breasts easing and the cry softening with every step. A bright red rosella, with blue and yellow wings, was pecking at a tree in the garden opposite. She hadn’t noticed this tree before but it was a Lilly Pilly, the same tree that Alistair had buried Noah under. There was no fruit this time of year, but she recognised the lush green foliage and the soft comfortable shape of it. At least twenty feet high and almost as wide, it was the kind of tree you want to picnic under. Her body warmed, breasts melting, some milk releasing at this communication, this sign. The rosella made a noise like a squeaky toy, not the one she’d heard, and flew off. Noah had spoken to her. They were connected, by the Lilly Pilly tree.
She snuck back into bed beside Alistair and lay awake imagining the actual tree. If she could hear him through a relative of the tree, imagine how wonderfully clear his presence would be if she was at the actual one. When Alistair woke, it was the first thing she asked him. ‘Tell me about the tree.’
‘What?’
‘His spot. Describe it to me.’
Alistair rubbed his eyes and turned onto his side to look at her. ‘Okay. It’s at the far back of the garden. And the garden’s huge, two acres at least. It’s pretty and green and the leaves are so glossy and thick the sun doesn’t get through so there’s no grass under it.’
‘How tall is it?’
‘Um, about the same as the one across the street from here.’
‘Does it harvest berries every year?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m going to find some in the shops and make jam.’
‘Joanna . . .’
‘Yeah.’
‘You can never go there, you know that, right?’
She stared at him.
‘Before we get up, I need to go over some things with you.’
This would become a morning ritual, one she dreaded, often pretending to be asleep to avoid. It always started with pills.
‘Take these.’
‘What are they?’
‘Valium. To calm you down, help you cope.’
She took the tablets with a sip of water, hoping they’d make her feel calm to the point of nothing.
‘I put the Boots bottles and the nappy and the trowel and his blanket and the bin bag in one plastic bag and buried it. I filled his grave by hand, patted it down. There was dirt on my hands and in my nails and the cops noticed when I was in the station. I told them I fell in mud when I was running along the streets, searching. Did they ask you?’
‘No. I told them you searched the area, though.’
‘Good, so that’s why there was dirt, okay? Oh no, if they found any in the car last night. Shit. Did they? I don’t think so, they didn’t say anything, but maybe they did and want to test it before asking us. Thank God those cadaver dogs didn’t detect anything. The plastic bin bag was genius. Glad I thought of that. But there wouldn’t be any dirt in the car. If they find any in the car we can say . . . Shh, right, let me think. Something simple. Did I look inside the car again after we raised the alarm?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think I did. Yeah. I did. Of course I would have done that to double check, and look for evidence. So we can say t
he dirt in the car must have been from when I looked through the front and back seats before the police arrived. But listen, if they say something that means they don’t buy that – for whatever reason, dunno if the soil’s different at the milk bar from Swan Bay, say – I could also explain that I jumped the fence on the Geelong Road looking for a signal earlier in the day and dropped my phone. Yeah, that’s it. That’s fine. A backup plan. We stopped at the side of the road twice on the way to Geelong because we wanted to ring Mum about the fires. I can say we couldn’t get a signal and I walked around a bit to get one and jumped the fence, dropping the phone in dirt. That works in case any drivers saw us too. So my hands and the car might have been dirty from that too. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Shit, I nearly forgot. Why did you buy tampons? You don’t need them when you’re breastfeeding, do you?’
‘I know. I didn’t think. I told Phan they were for discharge.’
‘Right, good girl.’
‘So my discharge is now on file.’
‘Can you think of anything else?’
‘What were you saying about a Japa-something?’
‘Japara. It’s a raincoat. Like a Barbour.’
‘You saw someone?’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t too. You sure you didn’t, about a hundred metres down the road?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Joanna said. ‘And a Yoot? You mean a boy or something?’
‘A utility vehicle, like a pick-up. U-T-E. I saw one just before. So did you.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes. There’ll be a press conference soon. We need to ask the public for help. Can you do that?’
‘I don’t want to.’
A set of instructions followed.
‘I know honey, but you have to. If you feel confused or cornered you say: ‘No comment.’ If they push you, say: ‘I’m sorry, I’m too distressed to talk.’ Don’t smile, ever. Don’t fidget, that looks like you’re hiding something. Cry, don’t hold it back, the more the better. Try not to be alone with Mum. If her hope and pain’s upsetting you, go to the toilet, lock yourself in. Don’t get into conversations with her. Only call your friends when I’m with you, especially Kirsty. Forget the situation with Chloe for now. I’ll deal with that. Stay off the internet. No emails. Don’t watch the news. Don’t feel guilty about people helping. It makes them feel good about themselves. Tell everyone the same thing, over and over. You know it by heart. No new words. None. If it gets too difficult, cry, or say ‘I’m sorry—’
She finished it for him: ‘I’m too distressed to talk.’
‘Right. We made this decision for good reasons, remember that. What we’re doing is right. If you ever need to talk, talk to me. I’ll always be here for you. Always. But please, try and forget where I put him. You can never go there.’
‘Are you finished?’ she asked.
‘Have you got it all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘Can I go to the toilet now?’
*
Elizabeth was sobbing over breakfast. A paedophile had been released after questioning and Elizabeth was upset. Yes, what a shame, Joanna felt like saying: What a shame a paedophile didn’t take him. That would have been excellent. Joanna went to the toilet, as instructed, and stayed there for an hour.
For the rest of the day she sat on the sofa and looked out the window at the tree across the road. She wasn’t expected to be competent or articulate, so no one intervened. Activity hummed around her: a website was created, posters designed, printed, copied and distributed to the volunteers based at the hall in Point Lonsdale, police came and went, talking about possible sightings that made Elizabeth ecstatic with optimism. Detective Phan hovered over the tapped phones, waiting for a kidnapper to call, she supposed. Their hire car, which had been cordoned off and examined at the scene, had been taken away for further examination, and Alistair set about hiring another. A request for holiday photos went viral on the internet, and 260 photos taken in Point Lonsdale on the 15th had already flooded in. Horrifying, but two convicted sex offenders had been identified by police – accidentally snapped in the background by unsuspecting beachgoers. Neighbours and community voyeurs brought flowers and food. A police officer stood guard at the front of the house. Someone tried to shut the blinds because reporters were taking photos from the pavement. ‘Please leave it open,’ Joanna said.
Alistair was busy, decisive and convincing. He hired a PR guru as soon as they’d given their statements. Bethany McDonald had done the MBA with him and was ‘a driven, power-hungry bitch.’ Ergo, perfect. She’d been involved in the Sydney Olympics and had major celebrities tweeting about the disappearance within an hour. ‘Jacie Malbo’s offering a reward!’ Alistair announced after one of many energetic telephone conversations with Bethany. ‘Twenty thousand bucks. And he’ll mention it at his gig tomorrow if we’ve not found him by then; put his photo on a huge screen on stage.’
He spent ages tweaking the MISSING poster on his laptop. ‘His face should be bigger . . . The contact details should stand out . . . The colour’s all wrong.’
He took call after call from journalists, repeating the story over and over, unflinching. He went outside every hour to update the media on the pavement. Impressive.
The only moment he lost his cool was when he phoned a colleague in London, MP Richard Davis.
‘Richard, Alistair Robertson here,’ his voice wasn’t even shaky. Kept his cool always, that’s why they hired him. ‘Fine. Well, not fine at all, but, you know . . .’ Joanna could hear the even voice on the other line.
‘Well,’ Alistair answered, ‘we need as much coverage as we can get – get his face and what he was wearing out there. But nothing financial, obviously. Speaking of which . . . I’ve been mulling over Johnstone-gate.’
Long pause.
‘There’s no need. I can deal with it,’ Alistair said, visibly annoyed.
Longer pause.
‘I understand we need to be careful but . . .’ Alistair breathed fast through his nose as he listened, increasingly unhappy with what he was hearing. ‘Aha. Right you are.’ Alistair hung up, then hung up again, harder, almost breaking the phone.
‘What is it?’ his mother asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Everything all right?’ one of the male police officers asked, clocking the semi-violence he’d just witnessed and making Alistair nervous.
Alistair calmed himself to answer. ‘They’re getting someone else to take over for me for a while. Sorry about that. I thought a bit of work might help keep me sane.’
‘Good idea not to be worrying about work now, I’d have thought,’ the officer said.
‘That is a good idea,’ Elizabeth ventured.
The look he gave his mother made her recoil a little.
When Alistair shut the living room curtains again at dusk, Joanna went to bed. The breast pump was on the bedside table. Alistair must have put it there. She tossed it under the bed and soaked up the pain.
She woke to the cry again that night. It faded when she got to the tree, and the rosella wasn’t there this time, but it soothed her and she slept an hour or two afterwards.
18
JOANNA
17 February
When she woke, Alistair and his mother had left a note saying they were at the police station. Against Alistair’s advice, she went to Elizabeth’s computer and tried to log on to her Facebook and email accounts, but her passwords didn’t work. Alistair – or the police – must have changed passwords or cancelled her accounts. Probably for the best, she supposed, but she felt so bereft and lonely and longed for something familiar. If only her mum was alive. What she’d do to talk to her, to hold her, to tell her everything, to ask her what to do, how to get through this. Kirsty was the closest she had to family now.
Her mobile wasn’t in her handbag. In case the police hadn’t taken it, she rang the number several times from the landline, following t
he old fashioned brrrring brrrring until she found the handset on a dusty hard-to-reach shelf in the boiler cupboard. Alistair had hidden it. But he’d forgotten to switch it off. Ha! She checked Elizabeth’s car was still gone, and dialled Kirsty’s number.
In the past, Kirsty always knew exactly what to say. When her father ran off, Kirsty told her to take action; she phoned his production company office and forced Joanna to talk to him. Her dad said sorry, that he loved her, that sometimes parents grow apart, that he’d write to her, that he’d come and visit as soon as the next shoot was over, and that he’d bring her over to his new home in Canada. This conversation made Joanna feel better for a while, till she realised he wasn’t going to do any of those things. But Kirsty nursed her through. And when her mother was dying, Kirsty brought takeaway curries and books into the hospital for her and held her when she needed to cry.
This time, Kirsty said all the wrong things.
‘It was the fifteenth of February here when it happened,’ Joanna said when she called. ‘But it was the fourteenth of February for you, for the whole of the United Kingdom, where I belong. So I lost that day, the fourteenth. It went, just like he did. So you see somewhere on that plane a whole day disappeared and took him with it.’
Joanna’s weird ramblings made Kirsty cry more loudly. ‘Oh poor Jo. My poor Jo. I wish I could hold you. You mustn’t give up hope. Is Alistair looking after you? Is someone good there to look after you?’
‘Just talk, let me hear your voice.’ Joanna said, her only hope being that she’d stop with these words of misguided kindness, but Kirsty could only cry. She was so worried for Noah, so devastated for her wonderful friend, so guilty that she couldn’t be there for her. After the conversation, Joanna hung up feeling worse than she had before. She decided not to call her again and felt thankful that Kirsty couldn’t come over – her dad was having chemo – then she berated herself for feeling thankful. She’d become a monster.
The Cry Page 10
