The question caused Tony to almost spit his coffee across the benchtop, his futile attempts to conceal his laughter resulting in an ugly coughing fit.
Abbie wanted to sink through the floor.
‘Good, thank you,’ she finally managed, before reaching past them and retrieving the milk.
The men left, and as she waited for the kettle to boil, Abbie sifted through all the fancy teabags that the company provided. French Earl Grey or Superior Darjeeling? She shook her head. She was such a fraud.
Taking her tea and several biscuits from the jar that sat on top of the microwave, she trudged back out to her post, her embarrassment turning to anger. She hadn’t come here to be a receptionist; she was a finance graduate. Why was she being treated like this?
She sipped her tea, flicking through the files on her computer absent-mindedly, stopping when she came across a folder with staff details. As she scanned through the names, phone numbers and addresses of all the full-time employees, Abbie realised she didn’t even know where Marcus lived.
Her eyes settled on his address. St Kilda?
She pictured the touristy suburb, with its famous stretch of beach, bustling live music scene and underground drug culture. That made sense – he was probably living in some swanky apartment, with ocean views and a rooftop deck.
Abbie sighed. Perhaps he was simply out of her league?
‘Good morning, DGP Finance.’ She answered the call, still staring at the address, wondering if she’d ever be invited over.
‘Is Marcus Weighton there?’
‘Yes, he’s in his office, who can I say is calling?’
The nervous voice on the other end of the phone paused. ‘My name is Laura. He knows what I’m ringing about.’
Abbie put the call on hold and held her breath as she dialled Marcus’s extension – this would be the first time they’d spoken since he’d left her apartment.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘I have a call for you from someone called Laura?’ Abbie tried to ignore the sharp way he’d spoken to her – he was probably just busy. ‘She says you’ll know what it’s about.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Tell her I’m busy. Actually, tell her I’m not here.’
Abbie looked over at Marcus’s glass office, where she could see him sitting at his desk.
She switched back to the female caller. ‘It appears I was mistaken. Mr Weighton isn’t in the office today.’
A gentle gasp came from the other end. Then nothing. Abbie assumed the woman had hung up and was about to do the same, when she heard the sound of strained breathing.
‘Are you okay?’ she couldn’t help asking.
The woman sniffed.
Was she crying?
‘I just don’t know what to do,’ the caller stammered. ‘He is there, isn’t he? He’s just avoiding me.’
Looking from the phone in her hand back to the glass office, where Marcus was now hunched over, furiously typing on his laptop, Abbie could feel a lump forming in her throat.
‘May I ask what it’s regarding?’
‘It’s a private matter. But he is there, isn’t he?’
Abbie hesitated. ‘Yes.’
The woman exhaled heavily down the phone. ‘I knew it. Okay, thank you.’
Again, Abbie went to end the call.
‘Actually, can I leave a message?’
‘Of course.’
‘Okay, good. Tell him I’m keeping the baby. Tell him I don’t care what he thinks. And tell him I’ll make sure everyone knows about it.’
Abbie froze. ‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’
‘I said’ – the woman’s voice grew with confidence – ‘I’m keeping his baby and I’ll make sure he’s held accountable for what he’s done.’
With a heavy thud, the caller hung up.
Abbie stayed clutching the phone, her mind racing. Tell him I’ll keep the baby . . What baby? Surely Marcus hadn’t got another woman pregnant?
Letting her eyes drift to the corner office, she watched Marcus, now pacing in front of the long glass windows.
Only two days ago she’d been wrapped in his tight embrace.
She forced herself to smile at a passing accountant.
No. She decided determinedly.
The woman had to be mistaken.
Marcus wasn’t that sort of man.
The weeks after Tom’s accident went by agonisingly slowly.
Every day the boy brought in his special handmade card and gold-wrapped present, and every day he took it home again.
‘Have you heard from Tom?’ he would plead with his homeroom teacher before each class began.
‘No. Nothing yet.’ The response was always the same.
The only snippets of information he’d been able to gather were from Daniel’s friends, in the higher grades. They’d told him that Daniel had also been badly injured, and that he blamed Rosemary for the crash.
A fair while later, the boy learnt that both of Tom’s parents had been killed.
‘Has Tom died?’ He’d beg for answers from anyone who might know.
But for some reason, no one ever spoke of his best friend. And eventually he stopped asking.
During the morning recess and lunch breaks the boy returned to sitting under the prickly tree, using the sharp stones to cut his skin; he was happy to discover that the diamond below his index finger became permanently scarred.
And when the school year ended, and the old couple told him he was getting moved to another family and a different school, the boy didn’t falter.
He’d survived without his mum, and now he was surviving without Tom.
He just had to be brave. There was no other choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Leaning against the railing, Emmett stared down at the creek below.
A plastic bottle bobbed sadly in the shallows, its journey along the dirty waterway held up by a mossy rock. Going nowhere fast.
Emmett sighed. That was precisely how he was starting to feel.
Exactly one week ago he’d been seated face to face with Rosemary’s frantic brother, the anxious words of Daniel Norman still ringing vividly in his mind: Something bad has happened. Why else would she just vanish?
Since then they’d followed every lead, got the state’s best homicide detectives involved and interviewed countless people, and yet here he was, back where the women’s bodies were dumped, no closer to finding out who’d killed Rosemary Norman or Natale Gibson.
He closed his eyes, placing a palm on his chest. Why was his heart beating so quickly? He shook his head.
He’d sneaked back home sometime after 3 a.m., hoping to catch up on some sleep. Instead, he’d spent the few hours he had twisting and turning in a pool of sweat, his dreams filled with Rosemary’s playful smile, Natale’s soulful eyes, her little children Dario and Aria dancing around him endlessly, and then that man, that unknown figure walking up and down the corridors of the nursing home, like a ghost . . haunting him.
Emmett stood up, moving away from the pedestrian overpass and following the lonely bike path towards the city.
He hadn’t intended on stopping by the site today, but he’d been passing directly by it on the way back from speaking with Brian Gibson and Natale’s parents yet again.
They hadn’t been able to help with the identity of the man in the security footage, but Emmett had found some comfort in the knowledge that the Mancinis had booted Natale’s husband out of the family business.
‘And Brian’s returned the money?’ he’d asked, remembering the heavy duffel bag full of cash.
‘Yes.’ Francesca had scowled. ‘And he’ll be paying us rent.’
A loud whoosh from around the bend signalled a train approaching, and Emmett braced himself for the rush of wind he knew was coming. He watched the carriages rattle past, a blur of faces staring back through the grubby windows. How had no one seen what had happened here?
Stopping a lit
tle further along, he took several cautious steps down to the muddy creek bed, remembering where the first of the blue tarpaulins had lain. He pictured Rosemary’s vacant gaze staring off into the distance, the strands of tangled red hair.
You’re out there somewhere.
Checking the time, he realised he had to keep moving – he wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with Bryce Frederick, but he knew the head of homicide wouldn’t appreciate being made to wait.
Trudging up the embankment, Emmett headed back the way he’d come, following the path under a concrete overpass.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He had almost collided with a teenage boy on the other side of the path.
‘That was the 11.58,’ the boy responded, oddly, his eyes glued to his mobile phone.
‘Right.’ Emmett shook his head, and hurried on to his car.
His boss was expecting a detailed update on where they were at with the investigation.
If only he had something meaningful to say.
‘A storm’s coming.’ Bryce Frederick gestured towards his generous office window, where ominous clouds could be seen rolling in from the west. ‘Max is meant to be trialling athletics tonight. Don’t think that’ll be happening.’
‘No.’ Emmett sipped the espresso he’d picked up on the way in.
‘So, what’s forensics said about this jewellery you found?’
‘They identified multiple strands of foreign DNA on both the necklace and the bracelet. But none that match anyone on our system.’
‘And that photo of the old schoolfriend you mentioned?’
‘Daniel Norman can’t remember the boy’s name, but he’s adamant that it’s a former friend of Tom’s, so I’ve got Carter and Williams searching through school records for names of former classmates. One theory we’re considering is that an old acquaintance saw the newspaper article about Tom and was prompted to go and see him. But whether that’s connected to our murders, we don’t know.’
‘But we’re presuming the killer met the women at the nursing home?’
‘That seems the most plausible scenario at the moment.’
‘And you have footage of a man visiting Tom Norman, a number of times?’
‘That’s right.’ Emmett did his best to stifle a yawn. ‘The nursing home management weren’t able to identify that man, and we haven’t been able to match him with anyone in our database. But we’re sending the footage nationwide in case he has a record in another state.’
‘I see.’ Bryce rolled his neck, looking decidedly unimpressed.
‘To be fair, the vision isn’t great,’ Emmett floundered. ‘The man’s face is entirely covered by a baseball cap. He could be anyone really. But I’m thinking we’ll have to release the vision to the public. Hopefully someone will at least recognise his clothing.’
‘It’s not particularly distinctive, though.’
‘No,’ Emmett agreed, picturing the thin man in his jeans and hoodie.
‘And you remember what happened with the Timothy Reynolds case in Adelaide?’
Emmett nodded. The child strangler had gone into hiding after footage of him walking from the shops had been released. Two years on, there was still no justice for the grieving families.
‘Let’s give ourselves another twenty-four hours before releasing the footage.’ Bryce waved an imaginary bug away in irritation. ‘With all the resources I’ve given you, I’m sure you’ll be able to flush out another couple of leads by then.’
The rain had come down hard all afternoon and flash flooding across the city had left Melbourne’s public transport system in a mess.
Abbie miserably pressed herself into the crowd of soggy commuters huddled under the meagre shelter. Would a tram ever arrive?
She jiggled her feet, checking the time.
She was dreading the stupid parent–teacher interviews, but worse was the fear of what was to come later that evening.
‘Finally,’ the man beside her groaned, as the familiar, sharp angles of a green tram came trundling around the corner.
Abbie cringed as she saw the passengers crammed inside. She had to board this tram; she couldn’t be late.
Just managing to squash herself in, she balanced precariously, unable to reach either of the handrails near the doorway, while attempting to mentally rehearse potential topics that might arise with Spencer’s teachers. But all she could think about was Marcus.
You’re just incredible . .
Her face flushed as she remembered his words, whispered from somewhere underneath her sheets.
They were perfect together. So why was some woman claiming to have his child?
Abbie frowned. At least now she had a plan.
It had been more than luck that she’d stumbled across Marcus’s address – it was a sign from the universe, she was sure of it. That’s why, immediately after the parent–teacher interviews, she was going to his home in St Kilda. She would introduce him to her son. It would be difficult, but she would confront him once and for all – no more game playing, no more secrets.
‘Watch out,’ a woman growled, as Abbie lost her footing, falling heavily backwards.
‘Sorry,’ Abbie mumbled.
At the top of Elizabeth Street, the tram was held up by a confused truck driver, who was seemingly unable to navigate the ‘roundabout of death’, as the locals referred to it.
I’ll be fine. Abbie checked the time. It won’t matter if I’m a few minutes late.
They eventually got moving, but the relief was short-lived.
‘Attention, ladies and gentlemen, due to the severe flooding we will be terminating this service at the Royal Children’s Hospital,’ a man’s voice announced over the tram’s inadequate loudspeaker.
What? Abbie turned to her fellow commuters in disbelief.
‘Replacement buses will be operating every half an hour. We do apologise for the inconvenience.’
Opening the GPS on her phone, Abbie tried calculating how much time the disruption would cost her. The hospital was only a half-dozen blocks from the school. If it wasn’t for the rain, she’d probably be better to just get out and walk.
Hopefully the replacement bus service will be there.
It wasn’t.
As she surveyed the long line of wet people impatiently waiting for the non-existent bus outside the hospital, Abbie wanted to scream. It wasn’t fair. All she was trying to do was be a good mother to her son. Why was it always so hard to do the right thing?
Pausing briefly under a shop awning, she tucked her handbag under her arm and took a deep breath. She was just going to have to sprint. There was no other option.
When she finally made it to the school hall, she was absolutely saturated; her shirt soaking and see-through, her hair plastered to her scalp in a lumpy mess.
‘Oh dear,’ a woman tut-tutted as they passed each other. ‘Wet out, is it?’
‘Just a little,’ Abbie forced herself to laugh.
Her heart sank as she looked around the near-empty hall; her son was sitting sadly in the corner.
‘Spencer!’ she called out, ignoring inquiring glances from the few parents remaining. ‘Are any of your teachers still here?’
He shrugged, his attention entirely on the paper plane he was attempting to make.
‘Spencer!’ Abbie marched over, her wet feet squeaking noisily. ‘I asked you a question.’ She grabbed the paper plane from him.
‘Give it back!’ His high-pitched squeal echoed around the room. ‘I hate you!’
The inquiring glances turned to blatant stares. Abbie wanted to disappear into the floor, but instead she stood up taller. Here I am, everyone. The world’s worst parent has arrived.
‘Oh, you made it.’ The quiet voice of Spencer’s sports teacher came from behind.
Abbie turned around, happy to see at least one teacher still there.
She extended a damp hand. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
The sports teacher smiled, but Abbie noticed his eyes drifting to the clock behind her.
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‘I’m Owen Peters, I take Spencer for sport. I think we met this morning.’ He stopped, unable to hide a long yawn. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, we can have a quick chat about your son. I’m afraid I can’t stay too late, though.’
Passing the creased paper plane back to her son, Abbie sat down at a table, clicking her wet feet together nervously under her chair.
The teacher returned with some notes, and a small orange hand towel. ‘Perhaps you’d like to pat yourself down with that.’
Abbie took the towel, awkwardly dabbing at her saturated clothes.
‘As I said, I take Spencer for physical education.’ The teacher flicked through his notes. ‘So I’m only able to discuss his progress in that area.’
‘That’s fine.’ Again, Abbie noticed dark shadows under the man’s eyes, and she immediately felt guilty for holding him up. ‘Thank you.’
‘At your son’s age, our sports classes are all about enjoyment and participation – I like my students to develop a sense of fun from physical activity, whatever form that may take.’
Abbie nodded.
‘Unfortunately, Spencer hasn’t been able to participate much, due to his ongoing health issues, and sporadic attendance.’ The teacher paused, apparently waiting to see if Abbie wanted to jump in. She didn’t. ‘To be honest, I’ve been quite disappointed by his lack of involvement in my classes. It has made it hard for him to progress or develop any real skills. I’ve also noticed he’s less inclined to join other children for games at recess or lunchtime.’
Abbie shifted in her seat. ‘He has asthma,’ she said, sounding utterly stupid.
‘I realise that.’ The teacher attempted a smile. ‘But many of our students have similar health concerns and are still able to participate. What’s his asthma management strategy?’
Abbie baulked. Here she was back at school, about to fail yet another test.
‘He has medication,’ she said, hopping up to retrieve her son’s backpack, and returning with two small inhalers. ‘He has to take these every day.’
Owen looked at the blue and brown tubes, his expression bemused. ‘I’m aware of standard asthma medication,’ he said. ‘But does Spencer have an asthma action plan?’
Sticks and Stones Page 27
