Jazz looked up from the screen, stunned by what she was reading. ‘This blog, Phoenix—it’s kind of spooky. Riveting. I can’t read it quickly enough!’
Phoenix was completely absorbed in what he was doing. He was scrolling through endless stock images of shoe soles on the left-hand side of a split screen. The right-hand split contained just one pattern—the image of the footprints he had fixed and photographed in the disused laundry at the Belmonts’.
‘Really,’ he said, not looking up. ‘What’s it about?’
‘This woman thinks her husband is trying to kill her,’ said Jazz.
Phoenix’s head snapped up. ‘You mean we’re on the hunt for a murderer?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Jazz. ‘She stays alive at least long enough to write plenty more entries. In this one she says how embarrassed she feels about being so suspicious of her husband.’
Jazz refocused on the blogged entries from the unknown woman’s journal. Part of what kept it so interesting was the way the mystery woman’s mood kept changing. Some days she sounded desperate and suspicious; on other days the tone was much more hopeful.
24 October
I really feel I’m getting better. Perhaps it’s because Karen is here. It’s good to get to know my sister again. She seems very comfortable with Neil, ordering him around as if he were her own husband! I’ve even managed to eat some solid food again. Karen remembers many of my favourite dishes and spends ages in the kitchen preparing them. I can’t believe that just a couple of weeks ago, I really thought Neil was trying to kill me! But I’ll still keep hiding this journal just in case. What would Neil think if he saw it?
Jazz paused in her reading. She was as engrossed as ever but something didn’t seem right. The unknown woman sounded so confused; was the journal trustworthy? Or was it all in this woman’s head? The thought of this woman’s husband trying to kill her was awful to contemplate—part of her hoped the woman was deluded—but Jazz had to allow that Anika had been obsessed with this diary and someone had felt it worth stealing, and kidnapping Anika along with it. She needed to get to the end.
She clicked on ‘next post’ and frowned. ‘That’s odd,’ she muttered to herself and hit Refresh. The same thing happened. Rather than the next instalment of Anika’s blog, she kept getting an error.
‘That can’t be right!’ Jazz cried. ‘The next post is missing!’
‘Show me,’ demanded Phoenix, holding his hand out for the tablet. ‘It’ll just be a bad link or something.’ He clicked through various links, but each time he got the same error message.
‘It must be there,’ said Jazz. ‘That’s the last post, the one that Anika put up the day she was—’ she broke off.
‘Coincidence?’ said Phoenix, eyebrow raised. ‘I think not.’
‘You think the kidnapper has hacked her blog? Why would they do that?’
‘You said this journal is about a woman whose husband killed her, right?’
‘He was trying to. Without this last entry we don’t know what happened.’
‘Well, maybe we don’t need it to know at least part of the motive for the hack. Even attempted murder is serious stuff. Whoever did it must have thought they’d gotten away with it. But if the journal proved otherwise and someone published it online, for all the world to see—’
Phoenix paused. Jazz felt queasy as she started to realise what a horrible mess Anika had stumbled upon.
Then Phoenix voiced her worst thought. ‘If someone’s going to this much effort, there must be something serious to hide.’
<33:30>
Jazz and Phoenix stared at each other across the table. Neither knew what to say. Anika was in far graver danger than she could ever have realised when she innocently started blogging the journal.
The silence was broken by a ping from Phoenix’s laptop.
‘It’s the Treadmate program,’ he said, glancing down at the screen. ‘We’ve got a match for the tyre tread.’ He turned the screen to face Jazz.
On the left-hand side of the split screen she saw a promo image of a tyre with a distinctive, asymmetrical tread—a zigzag alternating with a simpler diagonal pattern, running in rings around the circumference of the tyre. The program identified it as a Suregrip SF 430B. On the right was the photograph of the tyre print they had discovered in the soft earth near Deepwater. Although less clearly delineated, there was no disputing the fact that the tread pattern of both tyres was identical.
‘This is like a tyre’s fingerprint,’ said Phoenix. ‘If we can find a green SUV with these tyres on it . . . plus the scrape marks that we can prove were caused by the gate at Deepwater . . . then we know we have the exact vehicle.’
Jazz was still shaken by what the blog had revealed, but as they gathered more evidence she felt they were getting somewhere.
‘I’ve got a match on the boot print too,’ Phoenix said, turning the laptop back and switching to a different window. He turned the screen to face Jazz again.
‘Here it is. Our kidnapper wears a size twelve Hardy-wear workboot. And we’ll have no trouble identifying the actual boot because there’s some damage in the kidnapper’s print—see? The sole’s been nicked a couple of times on the right-hand edge.’
She glanced again at the timer on her phone. 2.39 pm. They were making progress but time still ticked away.
The thought of her best friend being taken and held prisoner by a cold-hearted killer overwhelmed her again. Jazz closed her eyes and imagined Anika could hear her thoughts: We’re coming to get you, Anika. Stay strong.
‘Here’s what I still don’t get,’ Phoenix said, interrupting her contemplation. ‘Taking the evidence—the journal—I can understand, but why did the intruder take Anika as well?’
‘The jewellery box, remember?’ said Jazz. ‘Maybe your crazy theory was right after all. Maybe there is something in that box that the kidnapper desperately needs to get hold of. And maybe it’s not jewellery. Maybe it’s a clue.’
‘But what clue?’
Jazz jiggled on her feet, energised by this new lead. ‘We don’t know yet. But we know the Belmonts are doing everything they can to find it. So while they work on that, we need to keep tracking down this kidnapper. I’ll update our evidence,’ she said as she opened up CrimeSeen.
She navigated to the pictures of the tyre tread and boot print and added in what they’d found out.
She started a new entry in Notes, titled ‘Journal’, and added to the notes under ‘Kidnapper.’
She stopped, arms folded, thinking about what to do next.
‘Do you remember, Phoenix, when I said someone who’d be really familiar with the Belmonts’ house would be a former occupant? What about the previous owner?’
‘How long have the Belmonts lived there?’
‘All Anika’s life. We need to find out who lived in that house before them.’
She opened up a new window and typed in the Belmonts’ address. The search returned a map graphic and lots of real estate sites, but they didn’t give any details.
‘I’m not getting anywhere with this web search.’
‘Why don’t we ask Anika’s folks?’
Jazz shook her head. ‘I don’t want them more worried than they already are. Someone in the area is bound to know something. It’s time for the personal approach—ready for some doorknocking?’
<32:20>
‘So what’s our plan?’ asked Phoenix, as they turned into Anika’s street. ‘I’m guessing we’re not just going to walk up and say, “There’s been a kidnapping, tell us what you know!”’
‘Definitely not,’ agreed Jazz. ‘Especially since I promised Mr Belmont I wouldn’t tell anyone about the kidnapping. We don’t want anyone getting scared and calling the police.’
‘Although a direct approach might get us more answers,’ Phoenix argued.
Jazz shook her head. ‘Another of the finer points of investigation you’ve yet to learn. It’s called “indirect interrogation”. We need a cover story. Real
undercover police officers have to learn a whole script. We don’t have to go that far, but we do need a plausible reason for our questions. Let’s say we’re researching the area for a school project.’
‘You call it indirect interrogation,’ said Phoenix, ‘I call it the nerd approach.’
‘Well, whatever you call it, I’ll do the knocking,’ said Jazz. ‘And ask the questions.’
‘Why? Do you think I’ll scare people off?’
Jazz raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not exactly a people person. And you frown a lot.’
‘Fine. Be my guest.’ Phoenix shrugged.
They began at the far end of the street from the Belmonts’ and Deepwater, just in case the security guard was hanging around. Phoenix waited by the first home’s wrought-iron fence, and watched as Jazz strode confidently past the rosebushes that grew on either side of the footpath. She knocked loudly on the door, already running through the questions she was going to ask in her head. No-one answered. She knocked again and waited, uncertainly, highly aware of Phoenix’s watchful eyes on her. Time passed and, conceding defeat, she turned and headed back to where Phoenix stood on the footpath.
‘Great start,’ he said.
At the next house, Jazz couldn’t even open the front gate before two giant Rottweilers appeared, snapping and snarling. ‘Any chance you’re a dog whisperer?’ she asked Phoenix.
‘I’m keen to help, but I’m not losing an arm for it.’
Jazz was relieved that no dogs accosted her as she started up the path to the third house. Her knock, however, set off a volley of shouting from inside.
‘Go away! We don’t want whatever you’re selling!’
She turned back to Phoenix, who was smirking by the gate. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said. ‘You’re the people person, remember.’
Jazz came back to the footpath, her earlier enthusiasm dissipating. She checked her watch—4.00 pm. Of the first 48HOURS, only thirty-two were left. Time was running out to gather useful evidence.
‘How are we going to find out anything about the people who used to live at the Belmonts’ if no-one will talk to us?’ Jazz wondered aloud.
They were already at the last house on the Belmonts’ side of the street—the neighbouring Victorian cottage. Summoning what hope she had left, Jazz walked up the path and knocked on the door.
A woman opened the door, dressed head to toe in shades of apricot, right down to her shoes and socks.
Before the woman could say a word, Jazz launched into her script. ‘Hello, my name is Jazz and I’m doing a project on the local area for a school project.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to help you.’
Jazz was braced for the woman to tell her to get lost, so it took a moment for her to register what she had said. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, I’ve lived in this street for years! Debbie Chandler,’ she said, holding out her hand.
‘I’m Jazmine and this is Phoenix,’ said Jazz, gesturing as Phoenix came hurrying up the path. ‘What do you know about that house?’ she asked, indicating the Belmonts’ with a nod of her head.
Debbie’s chirpy smile changed to a look of concern. ‘Oh, that house seems to attract very bad karma.’ She paused, lowering her voice. ‘You know there was a murder there years ago?’
Jazz and Phoenix glanced quickly at each other. At last, they were getting somewhere! This talkative woman could be very helpful. But they had to play it just right . . .
‘A murder?’ Phoenix asked, eyes wide.
‘Oh no!’ Jazz played along. ‘That’s awful!’
Debbie smoothed her hair and nodded. ‘Well, I think so. Even if nobody else did.’
‘What happened?’ Jazz asked.
‘A nice young couple used to live there, Linda and Neil Sinclair. Linda was very sweet but quiet. She always seemed a little fragile but then she became very ill indeed. Her sister had to come all the way from Redcliffe to help nurse her. I got to be quite good friends with Karen and she told me all about him—’ her eyes flashed.
‘Him?’ asked Phoenix. ‘Who do you mean?’
Debbie lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Why the husband, of course. Karen was always very civil to Neil, but she didn’t have a high opinion of him. And his actions after his wife’s tragic death did seem odd. He just up and left. Had removalists come later to take all the stuff away. Now why would a man leave like that, days after his wife died, if he didn’t have a guilty conscience? Some neighbours said it was grief, but they didn’t know Karen the way I did. And I can tell you from what I heard, the truth is he couldn’t stand looking at the place where he had murdered his wife!’
‘Oh, that’s terrible. Do you know where he went?’ asked Jazz, managing to keep her excitement out of her voice.
‘He’s in Sunshine Beach now. Living in some fancy place that he probably bought with her life insurance.’
‘Life insurance?’ asked Phoenix.
‘Oh yes. Two million dollars! That’s what I heard.’
‘How shocking,’ said Jazz, genuinely horrified. ‘Why didn’t the police investigate? Surely they found out that he would gain from the insurance policy!’
‘They might have made some enquiries,’ Debbie sniffed, ‘but that’s about all they did. They might even have had reason to suspect him. But there was not enough evidence of foul play. Just poor Karen’s word.’
‘Where’s the sister now?’ asked Jazz, all pretence about the school project forgotten.
‘We lost touch,’ Debbie said sadly. She seemed almost in a reverie, staring into the distance as she remembered. ‘I only saw her again once, soon after Linda died—I was the one who had to break it to her that Neil was gone, that he had changed the locks and everything. I haven’t seen either of them since.’ She snapped back to attention and narrowed her eyes at Jazz and Phoenix.
‘I’m not sure how much this has to do with local history though.’ Before Jazz could think of an excuse, Debbie glanced at her watch and exclaimed, ‘Is that the time? I’m missing my favourite quiz show on TV. Lovely to talk to you!’ And with that she closed the door, leaving Jazz and Phoenix standing on the porch, stunned into speechlessness.
They turned and walked down the path, past the Belmonts’, scooted quickly by Deepwater and around the corner before turning to each other with excitement.
‘So it was a murder!’ breathed Jazz.
‘With a huge payout for a motive!’ replied Phoenix.
‘And we’ve got their names.’ Jazz already had her phone out and was running a new search: Neil and Linda Sinclair. ‘I’ve got a hit!’ she cried. ‘It’s an article from a local newspaper.’
26 November 1994
DEATH OF LOCAL WOMAN
TRAGIC BUT NOT SUSPICIOUS
Tributes have flooded in from the local community following the death of Linda Sinclair, following a long illness.
‘She and Neil were a lovely couple,’ neighbour Pat Perkins told The Advertiser. ‘Neil seemed quite devoted to her.’
‘I am of course devastated and bewildered by Linda’s death,’ Mr Sinclair said. ‘If only we’d been able to work out what was wrong, perhaps she’d still be with us.’ Mrs Sinclair’s physician, Dr Craven, confirmed it was one of the most mysterious cases he had worked on. ‘For a young woman to change so dramatically from an active person to one confined to bed—it’s as upsetting as it is confusing.’
Locals also paid tribute to Mrs Sinclair’s sister, Karen Taylor, who had provided comfort and assistance to Mrs Sinclair in her final days. Ms Taylor was unavailable for comment.
Jazz added some notes to CrimeSeen.
‘We’re really getting somewhere, Phoenix!’ cried Jazz, her energy flooding back.
‘I’m checking the phone directory,’ he said, sounding just as excited. ‘Oh,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘There are several Sinclairs listed in Sunshine Beach, but none with the initial “N”,’ he said, showing Jazz the list.
‘Doesn’t
matter, it’s still a great lead.’ Nothing was going to dampen her enthusiasm. ‘Next, we need to do a search on Ka—’
She was cut off by her phone ringing. ‘It’s Mack,’ she said, taking the call. ‘Hi!’
‘How’s the investigation going?’ Mack asked.
‘Great, we’re getting lots of leads.’
‘We? You mean, you and Phoenix?’
‘Yeah, he’s like, helping out and stuff.’
Phoenix looked up from his phone. ‘Bit more than helping, don’t you think?’
Embarrassed, Jazz turned away. ‘Can we meet? I’m dying to talk to you about Anika’s blog.’
‘That’s what I’m calling about,’ said Mack. ‘Can I come to your place? There’s something I think you need to see!’
<30:59>
Phoenix headed home, muttering something about a list of chores. Jazz hurried to her house, eager to meet up with Mack. Her mother was on the phone and hung up as she walked in.
‘Jazmine, I was just about to call you. I’ve been so worried. I thought something might have happened to you! I got home and you weren’t here and there was no note or anything.’ Her mother’s face was tight with anger and concern.
‘Oh, Mum!’ Jazz cried. ‘Don’t be angry. I’m here and I’m safe!’
Her mother’s face softened and Jazz ran and threw her arms around her. ‘Oh, Jazz. What’s that about? I’m not complaining, of course!’ her mum said, hurriedly.
Jazz kept her lips pressed tight together.
Her mum pulled away from the hug and glanced at the clock as she composed herself. ‘Where have you been anyway? You should have been home from school an hour ago.’
The Vanishing Page 6
