by Jaye Ford
Rennie walked back to him, no desire to soften the blow this time. ‘He might be hurt. One of the options here, Hayden, is that someone hurt him. That someone took him and hurt him. And you need to get over yourself so we can concentrate on finding him.’
As soon as the words were out, she wanted to snatch them back. Hayden was a brat, no two ways about it, but he was also the same kid who’d come here last night to see his dad. And there were tears in his eyes. Shit.
‘No one would hurt my dad. You can’t say that.’
‘Hayden.’ Naomi reached for his hand.
He pulled it away. ‘He’s gone somewhere, that’s all.’
‘Hayden, honey,’ Naomi tried again.
‘She probably made it all up so I’d have to go to fucking Cairns.’
Rennie watched as he turned his back on her, grappling for Naomi’s sympathy, his blame game not biting now, just throwing up memories of herself at his age. No, a year older and with worse news: her mother’s murder. She’d reacted with disbelief, too.
She couldn’t believe her mother had been right. After all the years of telling her daughters he’d come, drilling them to flee at a moment’s notice, waking them in the night for practice, climbing out windows in their pyjamas, going hell for leather to the allotted hiding place – enough paranoia to make Rennie think her mother was the one with the mental problem – and he’d actually, finally, brutally done it.
In all the time they’d been on the run, the cops had turned up only once. It was early on and their father had unearthed them at a block of flats. Rennie and Joanne, both too young for high school, had fled like they’d been taught. He’d beaten their mother senseless, would probably have killed her then if a neighbour hadn’t intervened. Their mother claimed he’d found them other times after that, not that Rennie ever saw him. Every now and then, their mother would turn up at school or walk in after work, say, ‘He’s here. Go pack your bag.’ And she’d load them into the car, no goodbyes and nothing that wouldn’t fit in their kit. Rennie once saw the slashed furniture in their on-site van before they left but that had been well before her mother became the suspicious, over-disciplined, unhinged person she was at the end. By then, Rennie had decided her father had forgotten them, that it was her mother who was crazy, who couldn’t give up the chase.
Then he parked a car right outside their van one night. Joanne was working, making burgers at a takeaway. Rennie was given the whispered order: Go! She’d answered back – For God’s sake, Mum, we’ve only been here three months. Her mother dragged her from the kitchen nook, pushed her towards the back of the van, angry, insistent. Go! Now! So she had, past the allotted safe spot, not stopping until the pent-up anger was run out of her. When she got back, the cops were there and Sergeant Evan Delaney sat her down in the back seat of a patrol car, knelt by the door and explained her father had been there. No, she had no father. Her mother was crazy; it was all in her mind, she’d told him. But the fatal knife wounds were real.
Rennie had fifteen years to prepare for it and she hadn’t been able to believe it. What could she expect of Hayden – an indulged kid with two safe homes and parents who loved him?
She backed off as Hayden shot to his feet and made no attempt to stop him as he stomped across the room.
‘I’m outta here!’ he yelled.
‘Hayden, wait!’ Naomi called, going after him as the front door swung open and hit the wall.
‘Let him go,’ Rennie said.
‘But . . .’ As loud footsteps crossed the deck, Naomi looked anxious, holding onto her stomach as though she might follow if she didn’t have the weight of an almost full-term baby to haul with her.
‘If he can catch a train in the middle of the night, he can go for a walk in Haven Bay,’ Rennie said. ‘Let him work it off.’
Rennie wanted to join him. Not literally – pacing it out alongside Hayden would probably do both their heads in. But remembering her mother’s late-night drills and the organised pick-up-and-run routine made her want to do something now. Anything except standing around feeling useless and uncertain. She thought of her mother tossing a sandwich or pack of chips into the back seat after she’d filled up with petrol on those get-the-hell-outta-there trips. You should eat now. I don’t know when we’ll be stopping again. Rennie walked to the dining table, picked up half of the sandwich Naomi had made, stood at the back windows looking out at Max’s garden and forced herself to eat.
‘Sorry that went so badly.’ Naomi stood next to her, the rest of the sandwich on a plate in her hand. ‘I don’t think I helped much.’
‘No, you were great. It would’ve been worse if you weren’t here.’
‘He doesn’t mean what he said. He’s just upset.’
‘Don’t be too sure about that.’
Naomi made a face – sympathy and comfort. ‘How’re you holding up?’
‘I don’t know. I’m worried more than anything. I think it’s something bad. That kid in the car. But then . . .’ She turned a little to see Naomi’s face better. ‘Trish told me Max disappeared a couple of times when he and Leanne were together.’
A small frown was followed by a gasp of memory. ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten about that.’ Then uneasy eyes met Rennie’s as the significance hit home.
‘We had an argument last night,’ Rennie told her. ‘Before the party and then at the party. Just a few nasty words but it was the last time I spoke to him.’
Rennie saw the torment on Naomi’s face and knew not all of it was about Max. She hated to see people upset. She didn’t watch sad movies because she couldn’t bear it, even on screen. Rennie had heard her go beyond the call of duty to find nice things to say to people who didn’t deserve it or want it. Now, biting her lip, forcing a comforting smile, she looked desperate to say something reassuring but struggling to find a direction. ‘It was a long time ago. He was different back then. Before the cave-in.’
And yet he was missing after they’d had an argument. ‘I thought we were okay, that everything was fine but . . . if he was unhappy . . .’
‘Rennie, he loves you.’
Yesterday, she would have said, ‘Well, yeah, obviously.’ Today, she wasn’t the same Renée Carter, the one she’d ‘discovered’ in Haven Bay. Today, she had voices in her head – Hayden’s, Trish’s, Joanne’s. Who can love that? And her own voice was asking, Does he?
A sound from the study made her glance around, another question in mind. ‘What’s James looking for?’
‘He said there was some work stuff he needed for next week, you know, in case Max . . . isn’t back. Or needs some time off after . . . just if he needs some time off.’
Rennie frowned. ‘That’s not what James said.’
Naomi’s eyes flicked briefly to Rennie’s, too quickly for another of those unspoken conversations, long enough to reveal the discomfort in them.
‘Naomi, what’s he looking for?’
The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. ‘I can’t . . .’
Then James was at his wife’s side, a proprietary hand on the mound of her stomach. ‘Everything okay?’
‘No, James. Max is missing,’ Rennie snapped, mad at him because there was no one else.
‘I meant with Hayden.’
‘Oh, that was peachy. A real bonding moment. Did you find it?’
He hesitated, then glanced at Naomi.
‘She didn’t tell me what you were looking for but I want to know.’
‘Rennie, I don’t think . . .’
‘If you know something, tell me. I just want to find Max.’
‘You should tell her, James,’ Naomi murmured.
He didn’t say anything, simply watched Rennie for a long drawn-out moment. Not tense, not relaxed, just still and unreadable like always. The landline rang, shrill and urgent in the silence. She wanted to bolt across the room and grab it but she held
her ground. There was something else and James knew what it was.
‘Rennie, the phone,’ Naomi said.
She moved then, blood pulsing in her ears as she grabbed it. ‘Hello?’
‘Renée Carter?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Phil Duncan. I’d like to talk to you about Max Tully.’
A hand flew to her throat. ‘Have you found him?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I have no news regarding his whereabouts. I’d like to ask you some questions, though. Where are you now?’
Naomi stood beside her as she gave directions from the main street. James stayed by the back windows, his gaze fixed on the view.
‘Do you want us to stay while you talk to the police?’ Naomi asked when she’d disconnected.
Rennie knew enough about cop stuff to guess the detective would want to talk to relatives and colleagues. James filled both categories. If he stayed, it might speed things up and, for better or worse, because facts were safer than assumptions, she wanted to hear what he had to say.
‘Yeah. I think that would be best.’
14
‘I was at my in-laws’ place over at Coal Point for Sunday lunch, which was why I could get here so quickly,’ Detective Phil Duncan told Rennie as he followed her into the living room.
Quickly? It was four o’clock. She found the blood at nine-thirty this morning. But it was his day off, she told herself, and he came anyway. ‘Sorry your lunch was interrupted.’
He held up a palm. ‘My mother-in-law is a lovely lady but her pork crackling could break teeth. I picked up a toasted sandwich at that cafe near the car park.’
She smiled a little, figured there’d be time to fill him in about her job later. Right now, there were more important things to talk about. She made the introductions to James and Naomi, explained the family and business connection. He shook hands with them both, made nice for a few moments.
‘So what happens now?’ Rennie cut in, impatient to get started.
‘Do you mind if we sit?’ He gestured to the sofa as though he was the host.
Actually, she wanted to pace the room, wring her hands, check the backyard again, but she nodded, took a seat on the sofa and waited while James and Naomi sat together and Detective Duncan eased his large frame onto the cushion next to her. She picked him as late forties, early fifties, short cropped hair with more salt than pepper, probably as tall as Max but twice his size. Not fat, not by a long way. Big-boned, broad-shouldered and meaty, the kind of man Rennie guessed wouldn’t move fast but could take a hit like a punching bag. She glanced at his square, solid hands as he pulled a small notepad from the pocket of his shirt and figured he’d probably throw a fist the same way. He’d look like a standover man if it wasn’t for the easy smile and the fluid, baby blue of his eyes.
‘So,’ Rennie started, ‘the blood in the car park. Have the forensics been done down there yet?’
He nodded, took a moment to include James and Naomi. ‘First up, the crime scene tech says it’s definitely blood and he estimates it got there late last night or in the early hours of this morning.’
Rennie pressed her hands together and slid them between her knees. ‘Max went out to the car park at around ten.’
He patted the air with his palm, spoke with the tone of experience. ‘It’s important not to jump to conclusions. There’s nothing to connect the blood to Mr Tully at this point.’
‘But you took samples? You must think there’s a connection.’
‘The blood collection is done in case it turns out there was foul play involved in Mr Tully’s disappearance. For the moment, though, the fact it’s there doesn’t prove it one way or the other.’
‘But he’s missing and . . .’
‘Let him finish, Renée,’ James said.
She shot him a glance. ‘And there’s blood in the last place he was known to be. Doesn’t that suggest something?’
The detective nodded again, some kind of recognition that further explanation was required. ‘There was also a brawl at the pub last night. I took a witness report this afternoon that suggests the fight continued in the car park and that a man was seen with blood on his face. I’ll be following up further but at this stage it suggests there are at least two possible explanations for the blood.’
Rennie said nothing, not sure what to think. Detective Duncan had clearly done more than buy lunch and talk to a crime scene tech. But if it wasn’t Max’s blood, if someone else had bled on the roadway, what did that mean? That the cops would be less likely to look for him? That Max had just walked away from the party? ‘Can’t you test it or something to see if it’s Max’s?’
‘It sounds like they’re doing everything they need to do, Rennie,’ James said, his tone more patronising than soothing.
The detective smiled patiently. ‘The sample will be sent off to test for blood grouping. If it doesn’t match Mr Tully’s, we can obviously rule out that it’s his. On the other hand, if it matches, we still can’t assume it’s his, just that it’s his blood type. Do you know what his is, Renée?’
‘I can find out for you,’ James offered.
‘He’s A,’ Rennie said. Max was a regular blood donor. He called it reimbursement for the blood he’d received after the cave-in – and he always came back boasting as though his type was an exam result.
The nod from Duncan this time was apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, thirty-eight per cent of the population is type A.’
Great. ‘What about DNA? Wouldn’t that show if it was his?’
‘DNA takes a couple of weeks and it won’t be done unless there’s evidence of a crime.’ He saw her frustration and held up one hand like a stop sign before she could say anything. ‘There’s no point for DNA yet. It won’t find him and it’s only used as evidence to help prove guilt in the event of foul play. While I’m here, though, it would be helpful if I could collect a DNA sample for our files. A toothbrush or hairbrush would be best.’
She glanced at James, not sure she wanted him adding any more supportive comments while she was out of the room.
‘Before I leave will be fine. Can you tell me what happened last night, Renée?’
Rennie crossed one leg over the other and pulled in a long breath. ‘I’ve explained it three times to three different police officers and I went into Toronto Police Station this morning and signed a missing persons report. What part of the story do you want me to repeat?’
She saw James shake his head, Naomi touch his knee and expected the cop to reply with irritation, but Detective Duncan surprised her.
‘I know this is frustrating and you’d probably prefer to have a search party out looking for Mr Tully but I’m coming in fresh here. I haven’t seen the report you filed yet and I only spoke briefly with the constable you met this morning at the car park. It was more important that we got a canvass of the area going. It’ll help me a lot if I can hear the story from you.’
Rennie wondered briefly if the hard man in him had to work on his concern or whether it was a naturally useful foil for his physique. Maybe he’d just seen enough people on a bad day to know staying calm got a better result. Either way, his tone took the edge off her anger – and it made sense for him to hear it firsthand. She closed her eyes for a second, tried to ease back on the impatience and think chronologically.
She told him about going to the party, the kid in the four-wheel drive, the altercation in the car park. About Angus McDonald hearing Max say he was going to check the car and the search they’d conducted in the dark. She tried to remember the questions the other cops had asked and included that information, too. She finished with everyone she’d phoned. Detective Duncan interrupted only once to confirm he’d written down the number plate of the four-wheel drive correctly. Other than that, he listened, took notes and held up his hand once to James when he tried to interrupt with his version
of the search party.
When she was done, he turned to James and Naomi and went through their versions of the evening. Naomi spoke to Max a couple of times at the party, last saw him when they stood together during the speeches. He hadn’t mentioned the road rage kid and didn’t seem worried. James explained he was late. ‘A little after ten, probably before ten-thirty,’ was as close as he came to an arrival time. He didn’t see Max at all; after the search he drove to the office in Toronto to look for him. The last time he saw him was at work on Friday afternoon.
Detective Duncan had been there three-quarters of an hour when he asked for a drink of water. As Rennie filled four glasses, Naomi propped herself on the other side of the counter.
‘How are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine.’ She’d had worse interviews with cops. ‘I just wish he’d move on to something that isn’t already written down somewhere.’
‘I’m sure he’ll get there.’
And Rennie was sure Naomi’s only reference was the police information stall at the annual Haven Bay Fair.
The detective had moved to the back windows and was peering into the garden as James talked quietly beside him. Rennie watched their backs as she carried the drinks over, wondering what James needed to say out of earshot.
‘Nice view you’ve got,’ Duncan said as he took his glass.
She ‘mmm’d’ in reply, figuring he was using the opportunity to make some kind of assessment of where Max lived.
‘James was telling me the house was his grandmother’s.’
‘She lived here for almost sixty years,’ James added. ‘She passed away a year or so after Max’s accident. Apparently, she thought he’d never work again and changed her will a couple of months before she died so he’d have somewhere to live.’
Rennie looked quizzically at him. That’s not how she’d heard it explained.
‘What kind of accident was he in?’ Duncan asked.
‘Do you remember the mine collapse at Teralba?’ James asked. ‘Max was the guy they pulled out.’
The cop made a soft whistling sound. ‘It took a while, if I remember.’
