He smiled: it was true, he was braver than the other boys. But they were bigger and stronger. If only he could make himself tougher, then they wouldn’t pick on him any more.
Pulling one of the branches off the tree, the boy took a spiky leaf and sharply jabbed his skin with it. It stung a bit, but it wasn’t too bad.
He pulled another from the branch and did it again. There, that was better.
After several more goes, the boy didn’t even notice the pricking sensation.
See? He thought to himself. I can show these boys. I can be tough.
Then, with a wavering hand, he picked up a small piece of sandstone that was lying near the trunk of the tree. It was oddly shaped, with a thick, chunky middle and pointed ends. The boy tested the sharpness of both ends on a fingertip, before pressing the stone into his skin.
He pulled back, weeping slightly, when the pressure became too much.
No. He growled at himself. It didn’t help to show weakness. He needed to show these boys he was tough.
He tried again, angling the stone so that the sharpest end was pressed into the soft skin of his left palm. He held his breath. Eventually, a tiny bubble of red blood appeared. He pulled the stone down about a millimetre, and the red blood followed.
The boy smiled. See? That wasn’t too bad.
The bell sounded and he got to his feet, waiting until he was sure there was no one around, before exiting his hiding spot and dashing back along the drain towards his classroom.
As he sat at his desk, he looked at his left palm. The small red patch of smeared blood was still there, and he felt really proud.
See? He told himself happily.
I’m getting stronger.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sound of his loud, exaggerated sigh filled the empty office, doing little to lighten his mood. Pushing a pile of papers aside, Steven leant back in his chair, stretching both arms out wide and arching his back so that his gaze met the ceiling.
He didn’t want to feel resentful, but he couldn’t help it. He hated the way the homicide detectives were treating him like a junior, and he couldn’t understand why Emmett had agreed to him being left to pick up the pieces for Ted, trawling through the last of Rosemary Norman’s phone records. Hadn’t he proved himself to be beyond such menial tasks?
Steven stared at the hands of the clock on the far wall, which were moving agonisingly slowly. It was almost 3 p.m.
Right now, he should be helping Emmett to reinterview Daniel Norman. Instead, his boss had again partnered with Bianca, while he’d been left wasting time doing something that would be better assigned to an office assistant.
‘I’m going to pop downstairs for a moment, do you mind if I divert the phone to you? I won’t be long.’ Annette’s beaming face peered through the doorway, and Steven instantly felt foolish.
Annette had been with the Missing Persons Unit since its inception, spending day after day handling tedious phone calls, managing rosters, payroll queries, sick leave and general inquiries – and not once had he heard her complain. If she could handle all that, surely he could push through one boring task.
‘No, of course not. And would you mind getting me a coffee while you’re at it? I need something to keep me going.’
‘Sure,’ Annette laughed. ‘I know the feeling.’
After listening to her footsteps disappearing down the corridor, Steven returned to his stack of paper, cringing as he saw what must have been hundreds of numbers typed down the page.
With a yellow highlighter he divided the incoming and outgoing communications into those that had occurred prior to Sunday 14 July – the day that Rosemary was presumed to have been murdered – and those that came after.
He ran his right index finger down the long list, looking for any obvious patterns.
Interestingly, Daniel Norman’s number appeared frequently in the days after his sister’s disappearance, but only a few times in the weeks prior.
Nearly all the outgoing communication after 14 July appeared to be in the form of text messages, and there had been absolutely no calls or messages made in the last two days.
Steven blinked as he felt his eyes water from staring at the pages for too long. Who had the phone? Why had they suddenly stopped using it?
After rolling his neck, he began the arduous process of typing each number into the statewide database, to see if any resulted in a match with someone known to authorities. It was a laborious task, but every time he crossed off a new number, he did feel a little satisfaction.
By the time Annette returned with his coffee, he was almost a third of the way through.
‘How are you going?’ she asked.
‘No matches so far, and the only thing of any interest is that a text message was sent to an unknown number on Saturday afternoon – the day before we believe Rosemary was killed – almost immediately after the call with her brother.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘It could be. Maybe she was arranging to meet up with her killer that night? Or maybe something her brother said had her worried? We won’t know until we get her handset. That’s why finding her phone is so crucial.’
‘Have you heard how that’s going?’ Annette placed Steven’s flat white on his desk. ‘They were going to do another line search this evening, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, but Medhurst only left half an hour ago, and he had to wait for a group of SES volunteers to get there, so I’m not sure they would have even started yet.’
‘Well, I don’t envy you.’ Annette reached into her handbag and produced a promising-looking bakery treat. ‘But I got you a pizza slice too, so hopefully that will help.’
Despite the thoughtful gesture, the interruption made Steven even less motivated to keep going. He wanted to be out on the road investigating with the others, not stuck in a room on his own.
Besides, he realised, staring at the long list of numbers he was yet to check, it was highly unlikely there would be a match, so what was the point?
Taking a sip of his coffee, Steven cursed as the hot liquid burnt his tongue.
He flicked through the papers, unable to fight the terrible listlessness that was taking over.
After half-heartedly typing a few more numbers into the database, and again getting no result, he decided that he needed to change tack. Of the outgoing activity, there were three numbers that kept popping up. Why not call one of them?
Cradling his desk phone with his neck, he tried the first number, the blood pumping in his ear almost masking the sound of the dial tone. He waited a moment, then hung up. What if he accidentally tipped off the wrong person? It was too big a risk.
He bit into his doughy pizza bread, letting crumbs fall over the desk. A new thought began to emerge.
Strumming his fingers on the edge of his desk, Steven let the idea take shape. It probably went against protocol, but would it work?
He stared at the list of numbers again. If he didn’t start proving himself worthy of working alongside the homicide detectives, he would be stuck with menial tasks forever. What did he have to lose?
Certain he was making the right decision, he pulled out his own phone, and began composing the perfect text message, carefully considering how each word might be interpreted.
He smiled as he imagined telling Emmett that he was the one who’d found Rosemary’s phone: not Ted, not a dozen volunteers in orange jumpsuits doing line searches, but him. His boss would be so impressed.
It was only at the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the corridor towards his office that a flicker of panic hit him. What if he was making a mistake?
His thumb hovered over the send button as the footsteps got louder. With a sharp inhale, he sent the message flying into cyberspace, dropping his phone into his lap as he did so.
Morton flung the door open. ‘You almost done? I got a call from Yarra Trams to say they’ve found footage of Natale Gibson getting on and off a tram last Friday. We need to go to their head off
ice to get it, though.’
‘Great, yes, I’m almost there.’ Steven plastered a smile across his face.
‘Well, be quick. I want to beat the traffic.’
‘Sure.’
In his lap, his phone weighed heavily, but Steven knew there was no point worrying.
After marking where he was up to on his papers and shuffling the documents into a messy pile, he placed his handset back into his pocket and headed out the door.
It was done now. All he could do was wait.
As his class made their way through the double doors, out the science wing and towards the library, Samir trudged several steps behind.
He’d barely spoken to his friends since yesterday’s incident, and he felt unusually uncomfortable in their presence. No matter what he did, he kept seeing the Indian boy’s pained face gazing up at him from the ground: that horrified, haunting stare.
He was also plagued by a terrible paranoia, certain that his guilt was obvious to anyone he dared lock eyes with.
His friends, he noticed, as he watched Abit try to trip up one of the girls ahead of him, did not seem to share his affliction. They’d spent the day behaving as if nothing had happened. But what if the boy had died?
Samir swallowed a lump in his throat. He wished he could just forget it. Why wouldn’t the boy’s stupid face go away?
Inside the library, the class was being instructed on how to navigate the new database that had been installed during the recent renovations. It was the last lesson of the day, and no one was interested, not even the teachers.
‘Just follow along with Ms Horton, please,’ their teacher yawned, as the group was made to stand in a circle.
Samir watched Abit making rude gestures behind the librarian’s back. Lots of the kids were laughing; it was the sort of thing he would normally find funny too, but now it just seemed childish.
After doing a walk-through of the library’s new sections (it was pretty boring and Samir couldn’t tell any difference aside from there being colourful signs everywhere), the class was allowed free time.
Slipping away from his friends, he found himself a quiet corner, tucked behind the new ‘Research Zone’. He had just pulled out his phone, intending to play a game, when the ding of a text message sounded.
Hey there, I think you might have my friend’s phone. She’s desperate to get it back. I’m happy to give you cash. Can we meet up?
Samir re-read the message several times, a sense of dread washing over him.
After ignoring the messages for the last couple of days, he’d started to hope that whoever owned the phone would give up, but now it seemed like they would never go away. Maybe he should just take the money and be done with it?
Hi . .
He started writing back, but then stopped.
Having his own phone had been the best thing ever – he’d been able to download music, stream videos and even use it to cheat on tests when the teachers weren’t looking. But the offer of money was tempting, and hard to ignore.
Samir stared at the message again, a feeling of utter confusion setting in. None of his friends had phones, so maybe he should just get rid of it? But then again, if he gave it back he would lose all the photos and videos he’d taken, and all the games that he’d worked so hard on.
He shook his head. He’d only just made it through to level 10 of Knight Warriors. It would have to be a decent sum of money to make up for that.
How much cash wud u give me?
He looked at the message he’d typed and smiled. Imagine if he could get three hundred dollars! Or even four hundred. Or more.
‘Samir!’ The screech of his homeroom teacher made him jump. ‘What do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be reading, not playing with your phone.’
‘Sorry.’ Samir quickly sent the message and shoved the phone in his back pocket as he plodded after the teacher towards the teen fiction section.
There, in front of the woman’s angry glare, he grabbed the first book he saw off the shelf and slumped on the floor.
He really hated school.
They’d knocked three times and were about to give up when the sound of slow, uneven steps could be heard shuffling towards them.
‘Anyone home?’
The door scraped open.
‘Yes?’
Emmett had to force himself not to recoil at the sight of Daniel Norman.
Standing in a thinning set of white pyjamas, it was apparent that Rosemary’s brother hadn’t deemed it necessary to get dressed today. The unpleasant odour suggested he also hadn’t deemed it necessary to wash.
‘Hello, Mr Norman.’ Emmett held out his hand, bracing himself for the limp handshake he knew was coming. ‘May we come in?’
As the detectives followed Daniel down the narrow hallway to the small living room at the back, it was clear that the tragic fate of his sister had taken its toll: dirty dishes littered every surface, discarded clothes lay strewn in a corner, and the blinds were drawn, creating a heavy, musty atmosphere that seemed to blanket the space in grief.
‘Can we get you something? A water, or tea? Or maybe something to eat?’ Bianca stayed standing as Daniel collapsed onto his couch.
‘No. I can’t eat. I haven’t slept either. I can’t really do anything.’
‘That’s understandable.’ Emmett sat down on a chair opposite. ‘Have you had much support from friends or other family members?’
‘I had a mate stay with me last night, but I wanted to be alone today. I just can’t process what’s happened. Why would someone kill Rosie?’
Emmett pressed his lips together. That was exactly what they were there to find out.
‘Mr Norman, we want to conduct a formal interview with you, if you feel up to it? We can either bring you back to the station, or we can do it here. It’s entirely voluntary, but we will be recording your answers, if you agree to it.’
Daniel looked confused. ‘I already gave you a statement.’
‘Yes, we know. But this would be more about your own movements leading up to Rosemary’s disappearance. We need to know exactly where you were and what you were doing on the weekend before Tom’s birthday.’
‘It’s entirely routine,’ Bianca added quickly. ‘We think you may have been one of the last people to speak to your sister, and we always like to rule family members out of our investigations quickly.’
Daniel looked from one detective to the other.
‘Rule me out?’ His eyes flickered. ‘You think I might have killed Rosie?’
‘As we said, it’s standard practice, and it’s also voluntary, so you don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with. But it would help us greatly if you cooperated, and it might speed the investigation up.’ Emmett opened his satchel. ‘You don’t have to decide straight away, but in the meantime, would you mind having a look at this for us?’
He pulled out the black and white photocopy of the newspaper article they’d taken from Tom Norman’s nursing home that morning, and passed it to Daniel.
‘This is a story about your brother, published earlier this month.’
Daniel gave the paper only a cursory glance.
‘Yes, I know. What about it?’
‘Were you aware of this article? It seems strange to us that this story was printed the same week that Rosemary disappeared.’
‘Of course I knew about it.’ Daniel shrugged. ‘I had to give permission for Tom to be featured in the story. I have power of attorney for my brother, so everything relating to his care goes through me.’
‘I see.’ Emmett took the paper back. ‘And what did you think about the article? Were you happy with how the journalist portrayed your family’s accident?’
‘I guess so.’ Daniel shifted in his seat. ‘I don’t really like thinking about the crash, but they said the story would help promote road safety and would put pressure on the government to keep improving the technology around level crossings. Some of those intersections are still so dangerous,
so I thought it was worth doing.’
‘That’s very good of you. I imagine it must be a traumatic moment for you to relive.’
Daniel’s face twitched.
‘Have a look at that paragraph there.’ Emmett sat the paper on his lap, turning it so that it faced Daniel, before pointing to some text midway down the page. ‘It says the crash happened on a level crossing, not far from Macaulay train station. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’
Emmett hesitated, looking to his colleague before continuing.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange that your sister’s body was found only metres away from the site of the crash, which happened some thirty years earlier?’
‘I didn’t really think about it.’
‘You didn’t think about it?’
‘Well . . ’ Daniel’s lips curled. ‘I actually thought it was quite appropriate. In a sick, twisted kind of way.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing.’ Rosemary’s brother waved his hands in the air and slumped back on the couch. ‘I don’t see where all this is getting us. I just want you to find whoever killed my sister. Then I want you to leave me alone.’
Emmett watched the man before them writhe on the couch. His behaviour was unusual.
‘Is there a reason why you never mentioned that both you and Rosemary were also in the car when it crashed?’
‘A reason?’ Daniel sniffed loudly before suddenly bending over, reaching for his right pyjama leg. ‘Here,’ he said, yanking the thin cotton material up above his knee and thrusting his leg forward.
Bianca gasped. The scarring was horrific.
‘Every day I wake up with the throbbing that radiates up and down my leg. I can’t run, or even stand for long periods of time, and I have to wear trousers all the time because I’m so sick of people staring at my injuries.’ Daniel dropped the material back down. ‘Why do you think I didn’t mention it?’
‘I understand this is distressing’ – Emmett took a deep breath – ‘but—’
‘You understand?’ Daniel snorted. ‘You understand? You have no fucking idea. Every second of every day I live with the pain of what happened that night. Every day I’m reminded of the flashing lights of the signals, the train horn blaring, and the haunting scream of my mother. Every day I’m reminded that my little brother will never be more than a snotty, drooling, useless mess.’
Sticks and Stones Page 13
