They locked eyes and Steven smiled.
‘Hi.’ He slid onto the rubbery seat opposite.
‘Do you have the money?’ the boy mumbled, his eyes darting nervously to the door.
‘Yes.’ Steven made no attempt to withdraw his wallet, instead using the time to sum up the boy opposite: though he was tall, and physically well developed, he couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen: his glowing, round cheeks giving away his youth.
Through the windows beyond, Steven could see several men casually chatting by their cars in the small parking lot. That must be the cover Emmett had promised.
The boy slurped his drink again. ‘Give me the money and I’ll give you the phone.’
‘I’d like to see that you actually have the phone before I do that. It’s very important to my friend that she gets it back.’
‘Show me the money first.’
Steven slowly retrieved the wad of cash he’d bundled together, sitting it just high enough above the table for the boy to see it.
‘Now show me you have the phone.’
The boy’s eyes danced around the restaurant. For a moment they seemed to linger on Emmett.
‘Here,’ he eventually said, removing a phone from his pocket and gripping it with both hands as though Steven might reach over and yank it from him. ‘I didn’t break the screen. You don’t get a discount for that.’
‘That’s fine. Here you go.’ Steven slid the money across the table, aware of the worried gaze of the counter staff.
The teen took the money and flipped the notes, his eyes wide.
Steven was just reaching to take the phone when the boy bolted, bouncing off his seat with such vigour he practically leapfrogged the table.
No.
‘Stop right there!’ Emmett’s growl was followed by a resounding thud as he pinned the boy to the ground.
Someone behind the counter screamed.
Steven watched as Emmett wrestled the precious handset from the teen’s desperate grip. A wave of relief flooded his body.
They had Rosemary Norman’s phone. He hadn’t messed this up.
The boy stood with his feet apart, his body hunched forward uncomfortably.
‘Bend your knees a bit more. Now shuffle your hands closer together. Try taking a swing. No, not like that. Here—’
The boy let Tom tug the bat from his sweaty grip.
His friend had been trying to teach him cricket for weeks now, and he was still struggling to get the basics.
‘See?’ Tom moved with an ease that made the bat seem like an extension of his body, rather than the cumbersome object he’d been fighting against. ‘Try again.’
The boy frowned, carefully lining his grip up with the spine of the bat, gently swinging it back and forth.
‘Good!’ Tom’s eyes sparkled. ‘Now try hitting a few balls.’
Focusing intently, the boy watched as the heavy red ball came flying towards him.
Smack! He struck it as hard as he could.
‘Was that good?’ He dropped the bat excitedly, expecting to see Tom running off somewhere in the distance, hurriedly chasing the ball.
Instead his friend was standing on the spot, giggling helplessly.
‘You’re meant to hit it forwards, not backwards!’
The boy turned to see the ball lying sadly in the back of the nets. How had that even happened?
‘Don’t worry.’ Tom walked over and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Have another go.’
‘Maybe I should try throwing the ball instead?’
‘Okay.’ Tom passed him the red ball. ‘But remember, this is my special signed ball, so you have to be careful. And it’s called BOWLING – not throwing.’
The boy shrugged, taking the red ball. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t as good as the other kids at sport – the stupid old couple never let him play outdoors, and he’d been too scared to join in at Maria’s place.
‘How come you’re so good at this?’ he asked, as Tom took his position at the crease.
‘My brother Daniel taught me to play. We practise in our backyard every day, and when we’re older we’re both going to be in the Australian cricket team. Then we’ll be famous and on TV.’
‘Wow.’
The boy had never thought about being a famous cricket player. Maybe he would like to do that too.
Walking to the end of the net, he wound his arm up – just like he’d seen Tom doing.
‘Hey, look!’ Scott’s loud voice carried over the edge of the oval. ‘The loser kids are trying to play cricket!’
The boy felt his fingers release their grip.
‘Oh no.’
He held his breath as he watched Tom’s special red ball go sailing through the air.
Thunk.
It bounced off the edge of a metal garbage bin, spinning sideways, and landing at Scott’s feet.
‘That’s a real cricket ball!’ Scott crowed, picking it up. ‘And it’s signed by Geoff Slater.’
‘Give it back,’ Tom yelled, rushing to the edge of the netting. ‘That’s mine.’
‘It’s ours now.’ Scott grinned, throwing the ball up and down a few times before he and his mates took off.
The boy felt his lips tremble. Why had he been so stupid?
In front of him, Tom’s face had turned red.
The trembling got worse. He wished he’d never bothered to try to play cricket. Now his friend wouldn’t like him any more.
Before Tom could get angry, the boy turned and ran. He ran as fast as he could, cutting across the oval and over the far side of the big wooden playground.
When he was far enough away, he slipped down the side of the big kids’ music hall, following the fence until it connected with the drain.
There, he slowed down, carefully pushing his way through the bushes until he found his prickly tree.
Under the safety of its arching canopy, the boy knelt on the ground, sobbing and catching his breath.
He’d just managed to find himself a stone with a decent pointy end when he heard rustling.
‘What are you doing in here?’ Tom’s bright face poked through the spiky branches.
The boy sniffed. ‘I thought you’d be mad at me.’
His friend’s freckly nose scrunched.
‘I am mad, but not with you.’ Tom dropped onto all fours and crawled in to meet him. ‘This is a good hiding spot you’ve got. What are you doing with that stone?’
The boy placed his left hand flat on the ground, and carefully carved a deep line into the soft skin around the base of his index finger. Then he cut another, and another, and another.
‘Wow.’ Tom’s eyes were wide as the boy held up the bloody diamond he’d created – just like the shape on the playing card he’d used to burn Maria’s house.
‘Do you want one too?’ the boy asked.
His friend hesitated, before tentatively placing his left hand out.
When the mark was done, the boys looked at their matching cuts, gleaming bright.
‘We’re blood brothers now,’ Tom whispered.
‘Yes.’ The boy’s chest swelled with pride.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The room was small and suffocating, and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t stop his legs from shaking.
Squeezing his knees together, Samir wiggled his hands under his thighs, pressing down into his chair and staring at the table as the two police officers continued to talk.
How could he have been so stupid?
Beside him, his dad’s heavy breathing was becoming noisier, more strained.
‘We need to understand how he came into possession of this phone, and what he’s been doing with it,’ the man who’d pinned him to the ground said. ‘It’s very important that your son cooperates fully.’
Pieces of paper were pushed across the table.
Samir didn’t dare look as his dad read through the policeman’s notes.
‘Bribery?’
‘Your son was refus
ing to return the phone. He made a series of demands for money. You can see those documented there.’
Samir’s legs bounced up and down. He wished he’d never responded to the stupid messages.
‘Will he go to jail?’
The older man smiled. ‘It’s not our intention to charge your son with anything – if he fully cooperates.’
‘Samir?’ His dad finally spoke to him, turning in the chair and looking at him with disgust. ‘What have you done?’
Samir’s knees pressed tighter together. He could no longer feel his fingertips.
‘I just saw the phone lying there, so I picked it up,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t expect it to work but it did. And then it let me download all these games so I kept it.’
His dad’s look of disappointment was so great Samir’s eyes welled up.
‘I didn’t think it was a big problem.’
‘What have we taught you about stealing?’ His dad thumped a hand on the table before grabbing Samir tightly around his left shoulder. ‘Your mother and I work every day to get you a better future.’
‘Mr Nwadike . . ’ The detective stumbled over the surname. ‘I understand you’re upset, but it’s best if we let your son speak. Samir, tell us exactly when and where you found the phone.’
Samir looked from the young officer, who had tricked him in the restaurant, to the older one, who’d leapt on him by the door. He didn’t trust them.
‘I just saw the phone lying on the grass when I was riding my bike near the creek.’
‘What bike? You don’t have a bike,’ his dad interrupted.
‘Mr Nwadike, please. If we could just let your son talk.’
‘I saw it lying there so I picked it up. I thought it was broken because it had a crack on the screen. I was surprised that it turned on.’
‘What day was this, that you found the phone?’
Samir shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was in the school holidays.’
‘Can you try and think what day that was – it’s very important.’
Frowning, Samir tried to remember what day he’d seen the phone there, the glint of the sun bouncing off the screen and catching his eye.
He shook his head. It was impossible to say, because without school, every day had felt the same.
‘I know I had it the week before I went back to school, because I had a chance to download Knight Warriors and I was already at level six by the time classes started.’
‘Knight Warriors?’
‘It’s a combat game,’ the younger policeman suddenly cut in, answering on Samir’s behalf. ‘Great graphics, really addictive.’
‘Right.’ The older man looked agitated. ‘So, you had the phone for at least a week before the school term started, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you just happened to see it lying on the grass near the Moonee Ponds Creek?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you notice anything else around the area where you found the phone?’
Samir shook his head.
‘Did you see a blue tarpaulin?’
The boy paused, feeling the weight of eyes upon him. He didn’t know what a tarpaulin was, so he shook his head.
‘Okay, and what did you do once you got the phone?’
‘I downloaded games.’
‘Did you receive or make any phone calls?’
‘The phone rang a lot but I didn’t answer, and I didn’t call anyone with it. I only texted.’
‘Who were you texting?’
‘Friends.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘I got some messages from people I didn’t know, and I thought it was funny to write back, so I did that a few times, but then I got bored with it.’
‘What did you say in those messages?’
Samir scratched his head. ‘I don’t remember. I think there was something about a party, and someone’s brother. But I was only pranking them. I didn’t write anything bad.’
‘Okay.’
‘If he pays for the damage to the phone will he be allowed to leave?’
‘We’re not worried about the damage to the phone, Mr Nwadike.’
‘He can take the money from his savings. He’s only a boy. I will punish him at home.’
‘I appreciate your support, but we do need to ask more questions. It’s not the money we’re worried about, but your son has unwittingly got himself involved in a very serious incident.’
‘It’s only a phone.’
‘Unfortunately, the phone your son took is part of an ongoing murder investigation.’
‘Murder?’
At the detective’s words Samir felt himself lurch forward, the image of the Indian boy’s pained face appearing before him.
‘He died?’ His words seemed oddly distant, as though they’d come from somewhere outside of him. The sound of the hearty whack of the metal pole rang in his ears, followed quickly by Abit’s laughter. He looked from his dad to the untrustworthy men. ‘But I didn’t do it. I only filmed it.’
Samir stood up, an image of the Indian boy tumbling to the ground. He remembered how his eyes had stared up at the sky, the way he’d reached a hand to him for help.
‘It wasn’t me. I just watched. I swear I didn’t do it.’ He wiped at a line of mucus dribbling down the base of his nose; a strange pulsing started in his forehead. ‘I didn’t want him to die.’
Just before he gave in to his body, allowing himself to double over and vomit, Samir was aware of the strange looks on the officers’ faces.
Emmett had just slipped out of the interview room when Bianca came charging down the hallway, almost collecting him in her hurry.
‘I was just coming to find you,’ she laughed, before lowering her voice. ‘How’s it going in there?’
‘He’s not our killer, I’m certain about that.’ Emmett gestured for Bianca to follow him away from the interview room. ‘But he’s involved in something – I mentioned the phone was part of a murder investigation and he started pretty much convulsing in front of me, moaning about not wanting him to die.’
Bianca nodded. ‘I think I know what that’s about.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s footage on the phone of some young teens attacking a boy outside a pizza shop. We’ve ID’d the restaurant and contacted uniform members from that area. There’s an active assault inquiry open – it only happened earlier this week. The kid was beaten up pretty badly by the sounds of it. They’re very grateful for the footage.’
‘Terrific, well, we’ve solved that for them.’ Emmett slumped against the hallway wall dramatically. ‘Is there any chance of there being something on the phone that might help us solve our own investigations?’
‘Calm down.’ Bianca rolled her eyes, presenting Emmett with several sheets of paper. ‘A series of calls were made between Rosemary Norman and an unknown person, starting from July 11 and ending the night she was murdered. Medhurst is getting an urgent track on the number, and the phone is being forensically tested as we speak. But in the meantime, there’s a short text message conversation recorded between them too.’
Emmett stood up straighter.
Great to meet you, I’ve had a look through my collection of photographs and found some priceless ones.
Amazing! That’s such good news. When could I see them?
I’ll call you.
Emmett’s heart sank. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s all that was recorded on July 11.’ Bianca indicated for him to move to the next paper. ‘There’s more on the night she died.’
On the way.
Great. I’ll meet you out the front.
Emmett stared at the words, hoping the letters might dissolve and reform before him into something more meaningful.
‘On the way,’ he muttered, without looking up. ‘The last words she typed: not exactly spelling her killer out for us.’
‘No.’ Bianca rubbed her forehead. ‘But I thought the discussions about photos were interesting, so I�
��ve got Morton looking for any photography studios or art dealers around the Acland Street area in St Kilda, where we know she was dropped off that night.’
‘Good idea. And how did you go with the doorknock?’
‘Not great,’ Bianca sighed. ‘It turns out that asking people in St Kilda whether they’ve seen a bohemian-looking woman is like asking beachgoers if they’ve seen anyone in a bikini.’
Emmett chuckled. ‘What about security footage?’
‘None that we could find – although we left calling cards at plenty of places, so you never know what might come up in the next day or so. But we did get lucky with the taxi authority.’
‘Oh?’
‘They’ve identified the vehicle she took, and they’re sending us the footage from the cab later this evening.’
‘Excellent. Were they able to confirm the anonymous tip-off?’
‘Yes. Rosemary hailed a taxi from off the street in Flemington and was dropped at Acland Street in St Kilda.’
‘When will we have a trace on the number?’
‘Should be soon – Medhurst’s great with that stuff.’
Emmett flicked his wrist, discreetly checking the time on his watch. It was getting late; he felt a lump in his throat. Nicholas’s school concert . .
The anxiety must have been obvious, because his colleague’s gravelly voice softened. ‘Finish up with your teenage witness and then get to your son’s performance.’
‘But we still have so much to do.’
Bianca tugged the sheets of paper back off Emmett, and patted him on the shoulder.
‘There’s no need for you to stay here all night with us. I’ll call you the moment we have anything.’
Abbie sat at the reception desk, staring at the clock and flicking through her diary sadly. She’d thought that finishing her internship project early would make her more attractive to the DGP management, perhaps leading to more responsibilities or even paid work.
Instead, she’d spent the last two days relegated to secretarial duties, filling in for some unreliable temp who’d stopped showing up the previous week.
She sighed as she looked at the blank pages of the months to come. It had been so hard to get this placement, and she felt sick at the thought that it could soon all be for nothing. What would she do once it ended?
Sticks and Stones Page 21
