‘So now you’ve heard about my family’ – Mr Stanakis clapped his hands together – ‘it’s time to hear about yours. When I call your name out please come up and join me, and then you can briefly explain to the class what you drew last week and why it’s special to you.’
The boy clenched his stomach, hoping no one would bring up his embarrassing accident.
‘Athena?’ the teacher called, and a girl with two blonde pigtails bounced to the front.
‘I drew my nan and me baking cakes in the kitchen! And this is everyone at the table eating them.’
‘Great. And why is that memory special to you?’
As Athena continued, the boy looked around at his classmates.
Ever since that humiliating wetting incident, he’d been relegated to the back of the room, in the seat closest to the door: ‘In case you feel like you might have another accident,’ Mr Stanakis had said, to the loud sniggers of the other children.
At first the boy had felt ashamed, but now he liked his position at the back – it gave him the ability to freely observe his classmates.
‘Well done, Athena. Now, Luke, do you want to come up?’
As the boy listened to each child at the front, he paid special attention to the reaction of those listening. From what he could tell so far, it was good to say that you had a mum and a dad, and that you liked sport, or playing outside, or climbing trees, and you should never say that you liked your mummy reading books to you in bed.
‘What a baby!’ Scott had yelled out, when Doug had said this.
As the last picture was presented, the boy breathed out a sigh of relief – no one had noticed his drawing was missing.
‘Okay, well done, everyone.’ Mr Stanakis beamed, looking around the room. ‘Oh, hang on . . ’ He walked to his desk and shuffled through the pictures that had been presented, before turning to the boy. ‘We seem to have misplaced yours.’
‘He probably peed on it!’ Scott yelled.
The teacher ignored this, and walked to the back of the room.
‘I’m so sorry.’ He leant over the boy’s desk. ‘I don’t know where your picture has gone. Do you want to come up and tell us about your drawing anyway?’
The boy squeezed his knees together, his legs trembling. He looked around the room; dozens of eyes were upon him.
He had no choice.
With the help of his teacher’s guidance, he walked nervously to the front and turned to face the class. There he licked his lips, squeezing his hands into tight balls and feeling his fingernails bite into his palms.
‘Hurry up,’ someone squealed.
A quiet titter rippled around the room.
The boy pictured the backyard of Maria’s house, where Zac and Nate used to play cricket. He remembered their shouts of excitement, and the hollow sound of the bat striking the ball.
He lifted his chin and stared straight ahead.
‘I drew a picture of my mum and dad playing cricket with me in the back garden. We always play outside when the weather is good.’
‘Wonderful.’ Mr Stanakis smiled. ‘And why is that special to you?’
‘It’s special to me because I love sport, and I love being outside. We usually play on the weekends, just the three of us. But sometimes I have friends come over and they play too.’
The boy uncurled his hands and wiped his palms on his trousers.
He tried looking around the room, but his eyes felt blurry. He exhaled, realising he’d been holding his breath.
When his eyes finally refocused, he was amazed to find that no one was laughing.
He looked from Athena and Stella to Luke and Teiwan, to Jayden and Heath.
Some of the children seemed bored, some were staring off into the distance and some were looking straight at him. But no one was laughing.
‘You can return to your seat now.’ Mr Stanakis gave the boy an encouraging smile.
As he walked towards his desk, the boy scanned the room in wonder: the annoying girls were busy fussing with each other’s hair; Scott and his mates had returned to doodling on their notepads. No one was paying any attention to him.
He sat down, smiling as he noticed the blood that had been pumping in his ears slow down.
He didn’t have to be normal like everyone else, he realised, a burst of relief shooting through his body.
He just had to pretend.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the cold room, the forensic pathologist leant over the body. It had been a long process, but he was almost done.
He rolled his neck, noticing a stiffness on his right side. Rubbing the sore spot gently, he yawned. It was time for one last exterior assessment, and then this unfortunate woman would be left to rest.
Standing at the base of the trolley, he began as he always did from the feet and then worked his way up. He noted again the minor cuts and bruises around the ankles and calves; he inspected the hands, where earlier he’d found soil under the nails. But when he got to the torso, he sighed.
He’d seen a lot of dead bodies in his time, but the mutilation of this victim was sickening.
He shook his head as he followed the marks up the woman’s chest. Each of the four cuts had been painstakingly measured and tested for foreign debris.
‘Extensive dermal damage due to lacerations,’ he murmured, reading over his own notes. ‘Incisions made with a single cutting edge. Best estimate: three-inch blade. Mild force presumed.’
The pathologist paused, re-reading his own words. Mild force. What an odd thing that must be for the family of this woman to read. There was nothing mild about her death whatsoever.
At least he’d managed to preserve some dignity in the removal of her organs, he smiled sadly, admiring the precision of his own work.
He’d opted this time for a Y-shaped incision, which ran from both shoulders, joining over the sternum and down to the pubic bone. It took a lot longer than the traditional U-shaped method, but allowed for greater protection of the body’s structure.
It wasn’t much, but perhaps that would provide some comfort to the family.
When the number flashed on his phone, Emmett felt a tingle of excitement. Luke Griffin had been a friend since his first year in uniform, and he’d been thrilled to hear that his good mate would be conducting the autopsy of Rosemary Norman.
‘Griffo!’ Emmett allowed his normally professional demeanour to fall back to well-developed casualness that years of pub banter allowed.
‘Mate!’ the hearty voice on the other end of the line boomed. ‘Long time no speak – how’re you going? How’s the family?’
Emmett gulped the large spoonful of fried rice he’d just shovelled in his mouth, quickly filling Luke in on the highlights of the year: Nicholas starting school, Cindy starting a new job.
‘Photography?’ Luke sounded impressed. ‘That’s very competitive. She’s done well to get into that.’
‘Yes.’ Emmett’s mouth twisted. He was proud of Cindy, but he didn’t feel like talking about her.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something hadn’t been right between them over the past couple of days. In fact, he could have sworn he’d felt his wife flinch as he’d slid into bed late last night, their legs brushing for the briefest of seconds before she’d drawn further over onto her side.
‘Anyway,’ Luke continued, ‘I’m sure you know I’m not ringing just to chat . . ’
Emmett pushed the last of his Chinese takeaway across the desk – he should know better than to order such greasy food for lunch.
‘You have the preliminary results?’
‘They’re on the way over.’ Luke’s tone became heavier. ‘The initial testing indicates your victim, Ms Norman, died from asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.’
‘I see.’ Emmett recalled Francesca’s description of bruising around Natale’s neck. He pushed the thought away. Brian Gibson was no longer a suspect.
‘You can read the report in more detail yourself, of course, but the ligatur
e mark encircled the victim’s neck, and there was petechial haemorrhaging visible on the skin. That’s why I’m confident she died from asphyxiation.’
‘Any idea what was used to strangle her?’
‘Trace evidence was recovered – some sort of flat steel wire was used. What’s unusual though is that the width of the ligature mark was only a couple of millimetres, and it wasn’t perfectly horizontal in orientation.’
‘You mean the wire wasn’t flat?’
‘Not perfectly flat, no. I’m struggling to think what sort of item would make that mark.’
‘And what about those cuts on her chest?’
‘As you suspected, they were inflicted after the victim died.’ Luke coughed. ‘Also, an odour of bleach was detected on removal of the victim’s clothes.
‘The killer cleaned up after making the cuts?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Time of death?’
‘I put it between 7.30 and 9.30 p.m. on July 13.’
‘Saturday night?’ Emmett looked up at his wall calendar. He’d been working on the assumption that Rosemary was killed on the Sunday. But if it was Saturday, that made Daniel Norman’s afternoon call even more important. And hadn’t Ted mentioned something about Rosemary’s phone recording movements outside the Flemington area that evening?
‘That’s right. I’m confident with that timeframe.’
After promising to meet soon, Emmett hung up, staring at his scribbled notes in front of him.
Rosemary had been strangled to death, undressed and then deliberately mutilated.
The killer had then washed her down in bleach and redressed her, before wrapping her body in a tarpaulin and dumping her behind a train station.
It was brutal. And calculated.
Emmett stood up. He needed to get this information to Bryce.
As he made his way up the stairs to the floor above, another thought occurred. Rosemary Norman had died on Saturday 13 July. Her brother had reported her missing just over a week later.
By the time Daniel had come to him, she was already dead.
Emmett felt a rush of relief.
He mightn’t have taken her disappearance seriously enough, but at least Rosemary Norman hadn’t died on his watch.
Marcus sniffed his underarms discreetly as he sat in the boardroom waiting for the tedious meeting to end.
The stale smell only increased his agitation. How could he have let himself turn up in such a dishevelled state?
He’d been up all night, tossing and turning and worrying. It was unlike him to feel so out of control. Why couldn’t he put this problem to rest?
From across the wooden table he glared at Darren, who was busy rambling about his proposed new client campaign. He was well aware what his less experienced, but far too eager colleague was up to – he was pushing for a partnership.
Marcus had seen so many of his type before, and he prided himself on being able to squash any potential competitors. He’d worked too hard for too long to lose the position that would soon rightfully be his.
As Darren stumbled slightly, unable to answer a probing question from one of the accountants, Marcus sniggered. Men like Darren were all the same – the bullies at school who were actually weak when cornered, the overpowering bosses who came crawling back when fired, the smarmy executives who had no substance underneath the shiny exterior – he’d crushed them all before and he would crush Darren too; it was only a matter of time.
Grinding his teeth, Marcus watched as Abbie again took the long way back from the bathroom. She had no reason to walk past the glassed boardroom so many times, and he knew she was just trying to get his attention.
He drummed his fingers on the table.
After their disastrous encounter on Tuesday night he’d written her off, but maybe he should give her one more go? She was clearly up for it, parading around in that ridiculously low-cut top.
He smirked as she stopped unnecessarily at the photocopier. Fine. One more chance.
Another bad whiff emanated from his armpits and Marcus self-consciously tucked his arms in tight by his sides. He needed this meeting to be over so he could freshen up.
‘I’m just not convinced that your numbers are correct.’
Marcus zoned back in to the discussion, happy to find that Levi, the head accountant, was tearing Darren’s presentation to shreds.
‘I think you’re greatly misjudging your costs.’
Darren looked crestfallen. Marcus sensed his time to pounce.
He was just sitting up straighter, ready to launch into his own scathing commentary, when his jacket pocket vibrated. He took out his phone and read the message with a sinking feeling. He’d forgotten he’d agreed to meet her today.
‘What do the rest of you think?’ Geoff, the company director, looked around the table.
‘I think it’s lunchtime,’ Marcus said, without hesitation.
The director laughed, and after a few pathetic attempts by Darren to salvage his half-baked proposal, the meeting wrapped up.
As they filed out, Levi pulled Marcus aside.
‘Alamada’s?’ he asked, with a wink.
Marcus sighed. He really had to sort out his mess once and for all.
‘Come on, mate,’ Levi nudged him. ‘You know you want to.’
Marcus squirmed. Alamada’s was a topless restaurant just a short walk from their office. The food was appalling, but the waitresses did pretty much anything for tips.
‘Sure,’ he said, patting the accountant’s arm before heading to the men’s toilets to douse himself in cologne.
In his sweaty, messy state, the topless restaurant was the last thing he felt like, but he needed to keep Levi on side; he was proving to be a useful ally.
As he dried his hands and left the toilets, his phone buzzed again.
I’m sitting up the back. I’ve ordered you a coffee.
Marcus thumped the wall, then deleted the message. He had to make her go away.
In the small cafe, Laura sat with her back to the wall, keeping a close eye on everyone who came in and out. Her feet bounced up and down with nervous anticipation.
Marcus had reacted badly to news of her pregnancy, but it was just the initial shock, she knew that. Once they’d sat down together and spoken about it, she was sure they would find a way to make it work.
They’d been dating for months now and it was obvious they were meant for each other.
The best part of the whole thing was that they would finally be able to go public with their relationship. It had been such a struggle to keep it quiet – at times she’d found herself almost giving up, almost ready to call it all off. She’d never intended on getting involved with an older man, of course, but you can’t control love; she’d learnt that now.
The waiter came over again, and this time Laura decided she’d better order something before he got cranky. The cafe was filling up with city workers, and she was taking up precious table space.
‘A chai latte please,’ she smiled. ‘And a skinny cappuccino for my boyfriend.’
‘Nothing to eat?’ The surly waiter was not impressed.
‘Not at the moment, thanks.’
After watching him swan away, Laura allowed herself to take her gaze off the front entrance for a moment and checked her phone. Sure enough, there was a message. She eagerly clicked on it, but was disappointed to find it was just from her friend Alicia, asking to swap shifts at the supermarket. The question made Laura realise she hadn’t even considered what she’d do for money, once she was unable to work.
Being only a casual employee meant that she wasn’t entitled to any maternity pay, and she was already struggling to pay her rent on her meagre income.
It probably wouldn’t matter, though, she realised. Marcus was super successful and made a lot of money; no doubt he would want her to move in with him soon anyway.
Besides – she smiled at the waiter as he unceremoniously plonked the two drinks on her table – there was plenty of time
to work all that out. She hadn’t even quite reached the twelve-week mark yet.
Putting her phone face-up on the table, Laura returned to staring at the doorway. What was taking him so long?
She fiddled with her top.
Something important must have come up at work, she realised, as she took a small sip of her drink. He was very high up in his company, and he often got called in to urgent meetings – he’d told her that many times.
Laura licked her lips, which were now coated in a light film of cinnamon. Hopefully his busy work schedule would calm down soon.
After drinking her chai latte, and watching the skinny cappuccino on the other side of the table go cold, she finally accepted that Marcus wasn’t coming.
Counting out the last of her spare change, she headed to the front of the cafe, and paused before stepping back out onto Collins Street.
He wouldn’t have deliberately stood her up, something had obviously happened.
‘Please don’t let it be anything too bad,’ she whispered, placing a protective hand on her belly as she walked towards the nearest tram stop.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The press conference had dragged on way too long, and as they left the Victoria Police Centre, Emmett sat slouched in the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window.
‘That TV reporter was giving you a hard time, wasn’t he?’ Bianca teased.
‘I know . . Ow.’ Emmett rubbed his forehead, which he’d just bumped against the glass.
He’d gratefully accepted his colleague’s offer to drive the short distance back to their headquarters, hoping to use the time to give his eyes some rest. But the combination of her incessant questioning and her apparent desire to drive like she was in a rally made that impossible.
‘He must know something we don’t.’ Emmett scowled. ‘Because he seems to think the connection between the women should have been obvious.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s very easy to criticise in hindsight. And the plain truth is, no one could have seen this coming – aside from the killer.’
Sticks and Stones Page 17
