Sticks and Stones

by Katherine Firkin

  ‘Shouldn’t we be handing the Norman case over to homicide?’ Morton interrupted, not bothering to finish chewing the large chunk of croissant he’d just gobbled. ‘They’ve got a body now, so why is it still our problem?’

  ‘The Superintendent has asked me to lead the Norman investigation. But we have our homicide colleagues here to assist us. I’m sure you all know that Detective Tardio led the Portsea murders case, and Detective Medhurst was instrumental in solving the fatal Footscray fire.’

  ‘But we have dozens of unsolved missing persons to get through.’

  ‘I know. And we can’t become complacent about any of those.’ Emmett paused as he thought about the massive workload ahead of them. ‘But for now, I’ll get you and Carter to focus on the Gibson disappearance. This morning, I’d like you to visit the family deli and speak to staff members there. We need to firm up Brian’s claim that he was at work all day last Friday, when his wife disappeared. You’ll also need to follow up on that security footage you found. From the vision you gathered, it appears that Natale boarded a tram after dropping her children off at the football club. We need to know where she got off, and what happened next.’

  ‘What about tracking Rosemary’s phone – you said that was a priority?’ Steven raised his hand, as though a child trying to get his teacher’s attention. ‘I’d be happy to stay back and do that.’

  Emmett smiled, aware that his younger colleague was attempting to get out of being paired with Morton again. But there wasn’t much he could do.

  ‘Medhurst has offered to take over that task, as he’s had prior success with triangulating data. He’s also going to go over Rosemary Norman’s medical and financial records, and start getting in touch with any friends or extended family members.’

  ‘What about our other cases?’

  ‘We’re getting assistance from other units with any new cases that come in, and later today I’ll be going over our outstanding tasks. The Superintendent is aware we have a lot going on.’

  ‘When are we expecting to hear from pathology regarding the Norman autopsy?’ Bianca Tardio’s voice was far deeper than her small frame suggested, and Emmett noticed both Steven and Morton turn in surprise.

  ‘We are expecting a preliminary report in the next day or so,’ Emmett said, unable to stop himself from picturing the horrific cuts on Rosemary’s body. ‘Hopefully that will give us a much better understanding of how that poor woman died.’

  Owen Peters had only just pulled up in the gravel carpark when he noticed the small figure sitting sadly in the yard. It was far too early for children to be dropped off at school, and the teacher felt his temper simmer as he gulped down the last of his bottled mineral water and headed towards the boy sitting on the bench. He was sick of dealing with irresponsible parents.

  ‘Spencer!’ he called out, once he’d recognised the pale face of the frail child. ‘Good to have you back, but what are you doing here so early? The yard duty teacher hasn’t even arrived.’

  The small boy coughed nervously, before standing up. ‘Mum had to go to work early. So she told me to wait here.’

  Owen frowned.

  ‘She missed so many shifts while I was in hospital, so she needs to catch up.’

  ‘I see. And how is your asthma?’

  The boy coughed again. ‘It’s not good. The doctor said I had ner-mon-ia. They told me I was meant to stay home today. But Mum couldn’t afford to take another day off work. I have my puffer, though, and those white tablets I hate.’

  Owen felt his nostrils flare; he’d arrived early so he could catch up on some work, not babysit abandoned children.

  ‘Come with me.’

  As the pair walked slowly towards the staff room, the wheezy boy held the teacher’s hand, while Owen mentally rehearsed the angry phone call he would be making to Spencer’s mother later that day.

  As a child he’d idolised his own teachers, imagining the job to be one of prestige, and importance, and influence. He’d worked hard to establish his career – struggling through high school to get the required university admission score, and even accepting a college placement in a country town three hours’ drive away – only to discover that most parents saw him as little more than a glorified nanny; the school a daycare that they could use at their whim.

  ‘What does your mother do for work?’ he asked as they entered the main brick building and passed through the first of many corridors that wound their way to the modest staff room.

  ‘She cleans houses. But her back hurts a lot.’

  ‘I see. And what about Dad, what does he do?’

  Spencer’s hand slipped out of the teacher’s grip, as he stopped, looking up in confusion.

  ‘I don’t have a dad.’

  Owen’s shoulders tensed. He’d never known his father either. That didn’t excuse poor parenting.

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘I have an older sister, Abbie. But she doesn’t live with us any more. She was always fighting with Mum, so Mum told her to go away. I miss her, though.’

  ‘That’s no good. Why don’t you sit down on the couch over there? How often are you supposed to take your medicine? Do you need to do that now?’

  The boy shuffled back on the worn brown couch, placing his backpack on his lap and hugging it like a soft toy.

  ‘I have the blue puffer whenever I can’t breathe properly. And I have my brown puffer before I eat, and I have the yucky white tablets at night. I already had my morning puffs.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ Owen sighed, turning to the crockery shelf in the kitchenette, where he kept his large mug.

  Students weren’t supposed to be in the staff room, but there was no one around, and he desperately needed a coffee.

  ‘Would you like a warm drink? We have chocolate powder.’

  Spencer shook his head, still hugging his bag.

  ‘I need to mark some assignments. But I’ll put the TV on for you.’

  After flicking the remote and finding the most appropriate children’s show, Owen parked himself up at the kitchen bench. Rifling through his satchel, he pulled out the folder of papers he was yet to mark, and took a sip of his instant coffee.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve lost my hat again, do you know where I’ve put it?’ a high-pitched, animated voice squawked from the television.

  Spencer giggled. And then coughed.

  Owen stared at the stack of assignments, flipping uninterestedly between poorly drawn pictures of hearts and lungs. His grade 6 class was learning about the human body, as part of their physical education curriculum. This assignment was all about how particular organs worked during exercise.

  He picked up a red pen, then put it down again. He couldn’t focus.

  ‘Mr Peters? I need to wee.’

  With an exaggerated sigh, Owen marched Spencer down the corridor to the staff bathrooms.

  As he listened to the sound of trickling pee, he shook his head. Why were there so many negligent parents?

  ‘Did you wash your hands?’ he asked, without needing an answer.

  Spencer disappeared back to the basin.

  Back in the staff room, Owen gave up on marking the papers, and instead let himself stare pointlessly at the television, indulging his morbid thoughts. He didn’t like to dwell on his own situation, but seeing this sad child had stirred up painful truths.

  He and his girlfriend Charlotte had been trying for a baby for over five years. Despite repeated trips to the doctors, counselling sessions and visits to so-called fertility experts, they’d ended up, like so many others, on a sad cycle of unsuccessful IVF treatments, their hopes fading with every failed attempt.

  Owen walked to the kitchenette and sloshed the remainder of his now cold coffee down the sink.

  The worst part was seeing the excitement on Charlotte’s face after each invasive procedure, when she’d describe how positive she felt that she’d finally fallen pregnant, only to have her heart broken when the doctor would inform them of yet another implant
ation failure.

  He swallowed a lump in his throat. The last time had been the worst.

  ‘You know what?’ his girlfriend had said, with glistening eyes. ‘I’m absolutely certain this time will be successful. I can’t explain it but something just feels different.’

  Owen had foolishly got caught up in her optimism, and had spent the next weeks investigating baby names and local schools, only to wake one morning to the sound of Charlotte’s pitiful cries from behind the bathroom door, when the bleeding had started yet again.

  He unclasped his fists and turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Now they were in the middle of what would be their fourth, and final, round of IVF treatment. If it wasn’t successful this time, they would have to accept that they weren’t destined to be parents. It was a painful decision, but they simply couldn’t afford it any more – they’d already had to remortgage their small house to pay for the specialists, and there was no accounting for the emotional toll the whole saga had taken on them.

  Owen plastered a smile on his face as Cameron, the music teacher, walked into the staff room.

  ‘We have a visitor,’ he said, pointing to Spencer, who was looking dozy on the couch.

  Cameron’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Yes. Mum thought it would be a good idea to use the school as a childcare service yet again, didn’t she, Spencer?’

  As the small child rocked uncomfortably on the couch, Owen wiped his clammy hands on his trousers. He hoped more than anything he would get a chance to be a father, but in the meantime, fate seemed determined to leave him stuck dealing with those who didn’t deserve children.

  Cameron smirked, disappearing to the back of the room to investigate the many items poking out of his staff pigeonhole.

  Owen watched the small boy on the couch close his eyes and drift to sleep, his pale lips resting open as difficult breaths strained in and out.

  He shook his head.

  The world was so often unjust.

  By the time they’d reached the top of Collins Street, Emmett was well used to his new colleague’s deep voice. Bianca had not stopped talking.

  ‘There’s just something about the finance industry, isn’t there?’ she said as they pulled up in a loading zone, outside a designer shop that seemed to Emmett to sell nothing but scarves. ‘It must be something to do with dealing with money all day. It just turns people into soulless jerks.’

  ‘Mm,’ Emmett murmured without interest. He’d heard enough about Bianca’s dating disaster with a finance executive when she was in her early thirties. He wanted to focus on the task at hand.

  ‘And of course,’ she huffed, closing the car door with an unnecessary thud, ‘they would get the best building in the street. Money certainly talks, doesn’t it?’

  Emmett looked to where she was gesturing. At least his new colleague was right about this – the building that housed the DGP Finance office was a glorious heritage Victorian, which rose to the sky like a sentinel watching over the many workers who buzzed up and down the busy city street. Ornate arches adorned the doorways and large windows, while elegant columns climbed up to the heavens. It was a long way from the square, almost apologetic architecture of their new police headquarters.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  An elevator took them to the twelfth floor – an annoyingly slow ride punctuated by city workers holding doors open at every level, so they could finish their inane conversations with those still inside. Emmett was relieved to get out.

  ‘Good morning,’ a woman with a sharp nose and unusual red glasses greeted them. ‘Are you with the Ortango group? We have refreshments in the boardroom, if you’d like to go through.’

  Emmett glanced across the open-plan office to the glassed room where several men in suits were already gathered.

  ‘No.’ Bianca’s gravelly voice had its usual effect, causing the woman to involuntarily flinch. ‘I’m Detective Tardio and this is Detective Corban. We’re here to discuss one of your contract employees, Rosemary Norman. Who was her superior?’

  ‘Rosemary?’ The woman seemed confused. ‘Oh, the receptionist. She’s not here any more. She was only from one of those temping agencies; so unreliable, you know how they are.’

  ‘We know she’s not here any more.’ Emmett stepped forward. ‘That’s why we’re here to speak to her superior. Who would that be?’

  After looking around anxiously, the woman darted off in the direction of a corner office. She returned a moment later with a squat, rather unattractive man, whom she introduced as Geoff De Grassi Porteous, the company director.

  ‘Please, just call me Geoff.’ The man slipped his right arm forward, and Emmett had the sensation of shaking hands with a snake, the arm then slithering back down the man’s side. ‘You’ve come at a rather busy time, I’m afraid – we have investors visiting from the Netherlands.’

  Emmett noticed Bianca roll her eyes.

  ‘But why don’t you come into my office? It will be quieter there.’

  The detectives followed the director, aware of the many eyes upon them.

  ‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you something? Pauline!’ The man clicked his fingers oddly, and a statuesque woman with glowing olive skin appeared. ‘Get some coffees, would you? What did you want?’

  As the woman waited in the doorway, Emmett was about to request his usual strong espresso, when he noticed the scowl on his colleague’s face.

  ‘We’re fine, thank you.’ Bianca crossed her arms.

  ‘So how can I help?’ Geoff continued once they were alone again, the director leaning back so that his right hand rested unpleasantly on the fold between his chest and stomach.

  ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Rosemary Norman,’ Emmett said, deliberately avoiding the announcement that she’d been found murdered. ‘We understand she was contracted to work here, for a period of . . three months, was it?’

  Geoff scratched his head. ‘That sounds about right. I don’t deal with the hiring of temps personally, but we usually get them in for a few months at a time, and if they’re good, we extend the contract.’

  ‘I see. And was Rosemary good?’

  Again, the company director seemed baffled. ‘I suppose so. I didn’t hear the phone ringing too much, so that’s always a good sign.’

  ‘And when did you realise that Rosemary was no longer presenting for her shifts?’

  ‘That would have been about a week ago, the Monday last week. I remember that because Sally was livid – she’s our accounts manager, but we’ve had to stick her on the desk ever since.’

  ‘No men were available, then?’ Bianca scoffed.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Emmett cast his colleague a warning glare. Now was not the time.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Bianca cleared her throat. ‘What was your impression of Rosemary?’

  ‘Not much.’ Geoff chortled, the detective’s disdain apparently going right over his head. ‘She was a very plain woman, messy red hair, I remember that. She never said much to me, just brought in papers when I needed photocopying, helped with booking clients for meetings – normal secretary stuff.’

  ‘Was she socialising with anyone here?’

  The company director baulked. ‘Socialising? As in, dating?’

  ‘Yes, dating. Or maybe just catching up for drinks with colleagues after work, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Not that I know of. She wasn’t much of a looker, I’ve said that though, haven’t I?’ Geoff stopped to pat his stomach. ‘And I don’t think she was friends with any of the girls. But let me check, hang on. Pauline!’

  Again, the tall woman appeared in the doorway, this time holding several thick folders to her chest.

  ‘Do you know if any of the girls were friends with that receptionist we had, Rosemary?’

  Pauline looked blank.

  ‘The red-haired woman, with the curls. The one that didn’t show up for shifts so we had to get Sally on the desk.’

  ‘Oh, that w
oman. No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘See?’ Geoff said, as Pauline darted off again. ‘I don’t think she was very friendly with anyone here. She just turned up, did her job, and left. But I suppose that’s all you want from a receptionist really.’

  ‘Right.’ Emmett flipped his notebook closed. ‘Your security cameras – can we have a look at them? We’ll need to go through the footage from last week, especially the Friday, which was the last day she was in, if I’m correct?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Geoff led the detectives back to the woman with the red glasses.

  ‘They need to see our security footage. Do you know who can work that?’

  After several tedious attempts at finding the right person, Bianca and Emmett were finally seated in a smaller office, behind the main reception area, where Kim, a lean, freckle-faced man, was operating the company’s security system.

  ‘Can I leave you with that?’ he asked, having found footage of Rosemary arriving to work, the week prior to her disappearance. ‘I’m supposed to be assisting the presentation in the boardroom.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ Emmett took the computer mouse.

  The most useful angle came from a camera which sat above the reception desk, and pointed to the elevator. From that vantage point the detectives could watch the top of Rosemary’s head as she sat at her desk, sometimes bobbing up to scan a document, or disappearing out of frame before returning with a mug or snack.

  Despite greeting everyone who arrived and left via the elevator, Rosemary was never seen to engage in any extended conversations with her colleagues, and her pre-packed lunch was always eaten alone at her desk.

  ‘She doesn’t really fit in to this environment, does she?’ Bianca noted, as they watched Rosemary arrive on the Friday morning, which had turned out to be her final day there.