Sticks and Stones

by Katherine Firkin

  She was dressed in loose-fitting linen trousers, a relaxed blouse and a cardigan.

  ‘She’s wearing different clothes to the ones she was murdered in,’ Emmett said quietly. ‘So we can assume she wasn’t killed on the Friday.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bianca agreed. ‘Which makes her brother’s claims of talking to her on the Saturday afternoon seem plausible.’

  They kept watching, the whirring of the clock in the corner gobbling up the last of Rosemary’s life.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Emmett stopped the recording, and rewound slowly.

  The security footage had reached Friday evening now, and they’d watched Rosemary pack her few belongings into her unusual woven handbag for the last time.

  He played it again.

  ‘There. See?’ Emmett pointed as the woman picked up a book, which could have been a diary or a notepad, placed it back down on the desk, hesitated and then decided to take it with her after all. ‘She was considering leaving the book behind. So we can be certain that whatever happened next, she was intending on returning to work on Monday.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bianca agreed, before flopping back in her chair. ‘And then what?’

  Emmett hit play.

  On the screen before them, Rosemary slung her bag over her shoulder and quickly dashed for the exit.

  As she stepped into the elevator, she stared straight ahead, her gaze unflinching as the silver doors closed, swallowing her up inside.

  The detectives let the recording run a little longer, on the off chance she reappeared. She didn’t.

  ‘And then what?’ Emmett whispered.

  The boy sat at the side of the house, crouching down low so he couldn’t be seen.

  He hated the new place. It was even smaller than Maria’s house, and with no other children to play with, he spent most of his days bored and lonely.

  The old couple didn’t even have a proper backyard, and they wouldn’t let him play cricket or throw balls around in case he damaged their stupid fruit trees. It wasn’t fair.

  From the kitchen window above his head, he could smell gentle wafts of smoke escaping from the stovetop, where the old woman would no doubt be standing, stirring chunky pumpkin soup or that horrible stew she insisted on making in one of the large brown pots.

  The boy hated the woman’s cooking, but he loved the smell of smoke. It reminded him of the fire that had swallowed up the living room in Maria’s house.

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend he was back there, lying beneath his doona as the smoke crept under the bedroom door, the room becoming enveloped in a warm, foggy haze. He could see himself running behind the other children, tracing his fingertips along the hallway walls as they dashed to the front door, feeling how the whole house had become hot and alive. It had been so exciting.

  The boy flinched as a bug landed on his face. He slapped the fly away and tried to return to his daydream, but the spell had been broken.

  From his back pocket he pulled out the shiny watch that he’d taken off the old man’s bedroom dresser, and swivelled it, so that the evening sun bounced off the silver at different angles.

  The light created patterns on the palings of the wooden fence in front of him, and for a while he sat there mesmerised by the web of bouncing lines.

  But then he felt frustrated. He didn’t know why he’d taken the watch; he’d just grabbed it out of habit. It reminded him of the ones his mum used to take from her male visitors. She used to love collecting those. But she was dead.

  The boy looked at the watch again, as one lone tear trickled down his face. It had a shiny silver band that was smooth to touch and a bright blue face where the numbers sat. His mum would have loved this one.

  A tightness in his throat made it hard to swallow as the boy remembered how his mum would let him play with her collection of treasures, and how his heart would rise at the sound of her laughter, when they’d sit together and look at whatever new trinket she’d managed to take from the men who came around.

  Most of the time she just got coins, but sometimes she’d manage to slip a shiny ring, or a watch like this one. One time she’d even taken a whole wallet.

  ‘We can live like kings tonight!’ she’d laughed.

  The boy wiped his face, as a clump of snot dribbled from his nose. He hated remembering his mum, because it made him sad. And he hated remembering those special times together, because he knew his mum would never again be able to present him with her treasures.

  The boy looked at the watch one more time, before angrily hurling it at the back fence. It hit one of the nails and bounced off into a garden bed.

  He stood up, and, once he’d found where it had landed, stomped on it over and over, until the shiny band links were tarnished and hidden underneath a layer of soil. Then he kicked the old couple’s stupid lemon tree as hard as he could, before heading inside.

  As the back door crashed behind him, the boy smiled. He hated feeling sad. It was much easier to just be angry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Steven squinted as the morning sun hit the windshield. They’d pulled up abruptly along a busy shopping strip, just back from the entrance to La Grosseria, the Italian deli where Brian worked.

  Even with his limited vision, he could make out a steady stream of customers coming and going, and he watched with interest as a young man, wearing a red apron over smart brown trousers and a striped shirt, diligently trotted behind an elderly woman, his arms straining under the weight of two large brown paper shopping bags.

  ‘You don’t see that kind of service much these days,’ he murmured, as the man waved to the customer before returning to the store.

  Morton didn’t reply.

  Steven turned to see his colleague was busy wrestling with whatever was stuck in his left nostril.

  ‘That’s disgusting. Do that in your own time.’

  ‘This is my own time, and it’s also my car.’ Morton continued, unperturbed.

  With an exaggerated huff, Steven unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out, before standing at the edge of the gutter. He hated being paired with Morton, and he was worried that the arrival of the new homicide detectives would make it a recurring event.

  ‘Come on.’ He banged on the windscreen.

  Begrudgingly, Morton emerged, propping his right hand on the open car door to help lever himself up and out of the front seat.

  A bell above the door jingled as they entered La Grosseria.

  Steven was shocked to find that the small shopfront hid a huge, cavernous interior, which continued as far as his eyes could see.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ he muttered, realising that he’d grossly underestimated the Mancini family’s business.

  He’d been picturing a small specialty grocer, selling meats, cheeses and maybe some pasta. But this was more like a massive warehouse, and it was stocked floor to ceiling with tantalising goods.

  Along the far wall, Steven could see shelves lined with mineral water, imported beer, wine and spirits. He began wandering through various aisles, his stomach rumbling as he spied artisan pastas, cold-pressed olive oils, gourmet sauces, Ligurian pesto, preserved black truffles from Tuscany . . it was heaven.

  ‘Can you believe how big this place is?’ he asked, assuming Morton was following behind.

  When he got no answer he spun around, discovering that he’d lost his colleague somewhere back behind rows of sauces and balsamic vinegars.

  He wandered a bit longer, mentally checking off all the items he’d like to buy, before making his way to the end of the aisles, where the space opened up into a large food court. There, Steven found Morton leaning against a glass display, openly ogling a fully stocked deli, which peddled specialties such as San Daniele prosciutto, capicola and other Italian meats.

  ‘What’s bresaola?’ Morton barked at a brunette woman behind the counter.

  ‘How about we find Brian before we start ordering lunch?’ Steven snapped, resisting the urge to tug on th
e detective’s sleeve to pull him away.

  Down the back, past an in-house cheesemonger, a barista was serving coffee.

  ‘Hi.’ Steven smiled, once the man had finished helping a young mother. ‘I’m First Constable Carter and this is my colleague Detective Williams. We’re here to speak with Brian Gibson.’

  The barista didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘He’s just out the back, you can go and have a look if you want, but I don’t think he’ll be long.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Steven paused. ‘Actually, while we’ve got you, were you working last Friday?’

  ‘Yep. I work Monday to Friday here.’

  ‘And do you remember if Brian was working that day?’

  The barista propped two small cups on saucers, and hit a bell on the counter. ‘Yes, he would have been working, he’s here most days.’

  ‘Can you remember what time you saw him at the store? Was he here all day?’

  ‘I dunno.’ The man’s voice was curt now, and he winced as he burnt his hand on the hot steam that escaped from his espresso machine. ‘You can see how big this place is, and I’m usually stuck behind this counter. You’d be better to ask him.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, we will.’

  Tucked in the far corner, past freezers full of pre-prepared meals, was a small doorway, covered by a curtain of plastic PVC strips.

  ‘Mr Gibson?’ Steven called out as he pushed through.

  Natale’s husband was bent over a large freezer.

  ‘Sorry to intrude.’ Steven took another step forward.

  Brian jumped, cursing as he dropped a big bag of frozen prawns. His eyes were wide, but the puffy, sagging skin that framed them gave him the appearance of being half-asleep.

  ‘What’s happened?’ He darted nervous looks between the two police officers. ‘Has something happened? Have you found her?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. There’s nothing to be alarmed about,’ Steven said, noticing that Morton had wandered off again. ‘We just wanted to take a look at the shop. And have a quick chat, when you’re free.’

  Brian shrugged, slamming the freezer closed as he led the way back out to the food court.

  ‘There’s not much to see. This is it,’ he said, impassively waving a hand as though he were a real estate agent guiding unlikely buyers through a property.

  ‘It’s very impressive. Are you always so busy?’

  Brian snorted. ‘Some days it’s busy, some days it’s not. I want to put a wine bar in, but I’m having trouble with the licensing laws – and Natale’s parents.’

  ‘Your wife’s parents are still quite involved, are they?’

  ‘They don’t come here much, but they still have a lot of say in the decisions – too much say, if you ask me.’

  ‘And what about Natale herself?’ Steven asked gently. ‘Did she ever come here?’

  ‘Of course. But not often. She’s never been that interested in the business side of things.’

  ‘I see. Do you have time to sit down with us?’

  Brian seemed to be considering refusing the request, before gesturing to the barista at the coffee stand.

  ‘Go and tell Harry what you want. I need a coffee anyway.’

  To Steven’s frustration, Morton followed Brian over to a small table, leaving him the job of ordering their drinks. As he waited at the counter, a security camera caught his eye. He did a quick scan of the room and saw there were several cameras, each positioned to capture a different angle.

  ‘How are you holding up, mate?’ he heard Morton ask as he teetered over, awkwardly balancing a tray with three mugs.

  ‘It’s been five days since my wife vanished, and I’ve heard nothing. How do you think I’m holding up?’

  ‘What about the children?’ Steven sat down, pushing a coffee towards Brian. ‘Are they doing okay?’

  To his surprise, the mention of the children seemed to strike a nerve, and Brian turned away, wiping his eyes.

  ‘Of course not. But I don’t know what to do. They keep asking for their mum and I keep telling them she’ll be back soon. What else can I say?’

  Morton slurped his coffee noisily. ‘Looks like it’s rough work, what you do.’

  Steven followed his colleague’s gaze. The wound he and Emmett had seen on Brian’s hand two days ago was starting to heal over, revealing small scars in his left palm.

  Brian bristled.

  ‘Of course it’s rough work – did you see how many pallets I have to sort through? Do you have any idea how much upkeep a place like this takes? I spend my life in this fucking deli.’

  The gruff voice of Natale’s husband seemed to echo around the store, and for a moment, nobody spoke. Thankfully the tension was broken by the arrival of Harry, the barista, with a plate of pastries.

  ‘Fresh cannoli,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to the awkward moment he’d just intruded upon. ‘Thought you might like some, boss.’

  Brian managed a smile, which sank as the young worker walked away.

  Morton reached forward and grabbed a brown pastry, crunching into the buttery flakes noisily.

  ‘That’s pretty good.’ The detective licked a clump of cream off his lips.

  ‘I have to get back to work.’ Brian stood up. ‘We have a big order coming in today, and I need to clear space on the shelves.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Steven said. ‘We’ll head off soon too. But do you mind if we speak to some of the other staff? I imagine a few of them would have known Natale, and we’re trying to get as much detail on her as we can.’

  ‘Knock yourselves out.’

  ‘Great, and one other thing . . ’

  Brian pushed his chair back into the table with a force that made the crockery shake.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We noticed you have security cameras in the store. We’d like to have a look through the footage from last Friday, the day your wife disappeared.’

  Natale’s husband blinked several times before answering. ‘Why? She didn’t come in here.’

  ‘Maybe not, but we need to see who else was around. It’s important we get as full a picture of that day as possible.’

  ‘The shop’s got nothing to do with my wife disappearing.’ Brian shook his head. ‘And anyway, the cameras don’t work.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They don’t work – they never have. They’re just those pretend cameras that we put up to deter shoplifters. They don’t record anything.’

  Steven looked to his colleague for help, but Morton simply shrugged as Brian huffed off.

  ‘Why do you care about the security cameras?’ Morton eventually asked, dusting icing sugar off his hands. ‘It’s unlikely his wife came in here, isn’t it?’

  Steven craned his neck to check that Natale’s husband was well out of earshot.

  ‘I don’t think she came in here, but we’re meant to be checking whether Brian really did work all day, as he claims. Remember?’

  ‘Well, that’s easy, then.’ Morton picked at a flake of pastry that was sitting on the table. ‘Let’s just come back with a warrant and seize the footage.’

  Steven had to resist the urge to pick up the empty plate and throw it right at his colleague’s face.

  ‘Didn’t you hear him? He said there is no footage. The cameras are fake – they don’t record anything.’

  An odd look crossed Morton’s face; his stomach began jiggling, then his whole body shook as he broke into hearty laughter.

  ‘You really are naïve, aren’t you?’ he jeered, tugging at his sweater, which had inched its way up his chest and was dangerously close to exposing rolls of flab. ‘Didn’t you see that glass office out the back? In the corner of the storeroom?’

  Steven frowned, vaguely remembering something. He’d been more preoccupied by Brian and his large bag of prawns.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And didn’t you see what was set up there, above the desk? All the security monitors on the computer screens? There were at least six different feeds playing out l
ive footage.’

  Steven felt his face drop. He hadn’t seen that.

  ‘No wonder they haven’t made you a detective yet.’ Morton laughed again, before taking an unnecessarily noisy slurp of the last of his coffee. He stood up, giving his young colleague a patronising pat on the head. ‘You really need to improve your observation skills, my boy. The cameras are definitely working.’

  It had been a painfully slow commute back out to Flemington thanks to the morning peak-hour rush, and as Emmett pulled up to the kerb of the wide, tree-lined street, he noticed Bianca hastily unclip her seatbelt.

  ‘You’re keen.’

  ‘I need to get out of this car.’ Bianca flung her door open dramatically. ‘I think my legs have gone to sleep.’

  Emmett murmured his agreement as he joined her on the nature strip, extending his arms out wide as he stretched his back.

  The mood had been sombre since leaving the office of DGP Finance – there was always something sobering about watching someone’s last moments caught on camera: when they blissfully wandered off to an untimely death – and neither detective had said much on the drive to Tom Norman’s nursing home.

  ‘That’s a cracking garden, isn’t it?’ Bianca pointed ahead.

  They were standing in front of a sprawling white complex, surrounded by Australian natives and shrubbery. To their left, a large eucalyptus tree stood proudly, and Emmett watched with bemusement as his new colleague snapped off a thin branch and sniffed the leaves.

  ‘You didn’t strike me as a gardening enthusiast.’

  ‘I like plants,’ Bianca said, a little defensively. ‘And it’s good they’ve made this area so green. It doesn’t look like a nursing home, does it? They’ve done a good job.’

  ‘Let’s wait until we see inside.’

  Though he was keen to learn more about Rosemary’s brother, the thought of being in an aged care facility made Emmett anxious.

  The last time he’d been to one of these places was as a junior officer, when he’d watched an elderly man urinate in the middle of a dining hall. The staff had been so slow to react that he’d felt compelled to assist the distressed man himself.