by PD Martin
‘So it’s possible he could have come in the front gate and then entered via an open window?’
‘I guess. Like I told the cops, I don’t remember if the windows were open or not, but it was a warm night.’
‘Okay.’
Mum arrives carrying a tray with a large pot of tea and five cups. Rose is in tow, with a plate of Tim Tams and homemade lemon slice. Probably both gifts from concerned friends and neighbours.
Mum pours the tea and we all help ourselves to milk and sugar. Once I’ve taken a sip, I ask if Leah had any break-ins in the twelve months prior to Ted’s disappearance.
‘No. Unless they didn’t take anything.’
Which is a possibility if our guy did a “dry run”, perhaps during the day when Ted was at school, or at least out, and Leah was at work.
‘Now, I know I said that the attacker is probably a stranger to you, but I need to double check. Is there anyone in your lives who showed extra attention to Ted? Or who made you feel uncomfortable in any way?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. And I don’t think whoever did this is a local. He’s not one of us.’
A common reaction—one that’s often wrong, with the most seemingly trustworthy and innocent of men being guilty of horrible crimes.
‘Take me through the night he went missing.’ I take the smallest piece of lemon slice from the plate. A chocolate biscuit, lemon slice and no jog this morning…I mustn’t be myself.
‘It was a normal night—well, normal for after Rod left. We used to all watch TV together at night or play board games, but not in the last few weeks before…’ She stares off into the distance for a few seconds, before coming back to the conversation. ‘We had dinner around seven, and then Ted went up to his room. I told him he had to do an hour’s homework before he could switch on the TV. I checked on him a couple of times, and he was at his desk. And then around eight-thirty, I took up a drink and told him he could watch TV for an hour. When I checked on him at nine-thirty, he was in bed and the light was off. I hit the sack around eleven. The next morning I went in to wake him and…’ More tears flow. Eventually she sobs, ‘He wasn’t there.’
I wait for a few minutes, until her crying subsides before I resume questioning. ‘And I believe his backpack was missing?’
‘Yes. But nothing else. No clothes that I could find. That’s why I didn’t think he’d run away, even though the police thought he had.’ She gives a little sniff and holds on tightly to her cup of tea.
‘What about a computer? Did he have one?’
‘Yes. The coppers took it away a couple of days ago. I hadn’t touched it since he disappeared.’
‘That’s good, Leah. They might find something.’
‘You think this man contacted Ted online?’ She refuses the Tim Tam and lemon slice that Rose hands her but manages a sip of tea.
‘It’s hard to say.’ I drain my cup. ‘It is a common way for predators to find young boys and girls.’
‘What about thirty years ago?’
Mum and Dad both look at me, ready for my response. ‘Perpetrators have definitely been known to update their methods. Obviously that’s not how he found the boys in the seventies, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a factor in Ted’s case.’
She nods. ‘I see.’
I wait for a few seconds, then lean forward to put my empty cup on the coffee table. ‘I’d like to take a look around. In Ted’s room, but also around the house to see what the access is like.’
‘I…I don’t want to go into Ted’s room.’ Leah’s hands shake a little, sending her cup wobbling from side to side. ‘And I don’t want to look around the house thinking of how some animal got to my baby.’
‘It’s okay. I can find my own way, if you don’t mind. It’ll give me a good feel of the house, as well.’
She nods, her relief evident. ‘Ted’s room is the second door on the left down the hall.’
‘Thanks.’
I leave my parents with Rose and Leah, while I start making my way through the house, trying to see it through the killer’s eyes. A number of windows would have provided easy access, if they’d been unlocked or open, with the flywires easily removed. The house is lived in, but homey, with lots of photos of a young, seemingly happy family. Ted’s bedroom looks untouched, but that’s normal when a child disappears or is killed—the room becomes a shrine. The room’s tidy and dust-free, but other than that looks like a normal boy’s bedroom: posters, a desk, a bookshelf. Nothing remarkable in either the house or Ted’s bedroom, nothing obvious that can help me.
But maybe a vision can. Although I feel like I’m intruding on Ted’s space, I sit on his bed and concentrate on my breathing—deep breaths in and out.
Ted’s asleep in bed and a figure leans over him.
I jolt out of the vision quickly, feeling disorientated by the brevity of the flash. I force myself up and smooth out the doona, removing the indent, the evidence that I’d sat on Ted’s bed. Another deep breath before making my way down the stairs, defeated.
We’re back in the car by 12.20pm.
‘Well?’ asks Dad.
‘I have a clearer sense of Ted now, but there was nothing that particularly jumped out at me.’
‘Nothing that reminded you of John?’ Mum does up her seatbelt.
‘No.’ I look down, frustrated.
Dad starts the car. ‘You’ll find something, honey.’
‘God, I hope so. Leah’s counting on me now, too.’
We’re silent until we hit the Hume, then Mum turns around. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘What do you mean, Mum?’
‘You know what I mean.’
My mouth drops open. I thought Darren was the only one who knew…
I certainly never told Mum.
Chapter 6
‘Not this again, Jan. I thought we were done with it years ago.’
Mum holds my gaze. ‘I thought so too…but I was wrong, wasn’t I, Soph?’
Silence hangs in the air. I maintain eye contact with Mum. ‘How did you know?’
‘My grandma used to see things, know things. And I started recognising it in you just before…’ She looks down.
I gulp, hard.
‘Jan—’
Mum turns to Dad. ‘Remember how Sophie started finishing our sentences, going to answer the phone before it rang? It was soon after she turned eight.’
‘I remember you talking about it, and me saying you had an active imagination.’ Dad shakes his head. ‘That stuff’s all crap, anyways.’ He takes a quick glance at me in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Come on, Sophie. Back me up here.’ He knows I’m a logical thinker, and assumes I’m with him on this one.
My mouth is dry. I’m too stunned to speak.
‘Sophie?’
After a moment I manage a cough and begin. ‘Sorry, Dad. I used to think it was crap too…until I started seeing flashes from cases I was working. Started seeing things that weren’t in any case file and that I couldn’t possibly know.’ I take a deep breath. ‘And then I remembered…I knew John was going to be taken and did nothing to stop it.’
‘You were eight years old, Sophie.’ Mum reaches her hand over the seat and I place my hand in hers. ‘Even though I was convinced you had some of my family’s gift, I still thought those two nightmares were just dreams. Your subconscious.’ She holds my hand tighter. ‘And you never said anything about them…afterwards. So I left it.’
I nod. ‘I forgot, Mum. Repressed it all until two years ago when I remembered the nightmares. And remembered something else.’ I bite down hard on my lip.
‘Go on.’ She gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
‘I saw him kill John, Mum. Felt what he felt. And it was disgusting.’
Tears start streaming down Mum’s face. ‘Oh, baby. No wonder you made yourself forget.’
I nod, still trying to push the memory away. Just because I can remember it now, doesn’t mean I want to. A shudder travels through me.
After a few b
eats of silence Dad finally talks again. ‘You guys are serious?’
‘Uh huh. Sorry, Dad. I know it’s a bit out there for you, but…it is what it is.’ I finish the sentence with one of Dad’s favourite American expressions, hoping it will give some levity to the situation.
‘I don’t know, honey…’ Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
Another pause, I watch cars pass periodically. Then Mum says, ‘So, did you see anything at the Strawasky’s house?’
‘Only a flash…a silhouette bending over Ted in bed. It looked like Ted was fast asleep and the man was staring at him. But that was it.’
She nods. ‘So, can you control it?’
‘I can usually induce a vision at a crime scene or by looking at crime-scene photos but it’s nearly always such small snippets that it’s hard to piece together. Sometimes I get more, but it’s often emotions. What the killer or the victim is feeling.’
Mum frowns, deep creases forming along her brow. ‘That must be horrible, dear.’
‘It is…but it can help me profile, help me get an insight into the victims and perpetrators.’
‘And John?’ Her voice is tentative, like she’s afraid to ask, afraid to know.
‘He was strangled, Mum.’ She never knew exactly how John died—and she deserves to know.
She gives a distant nod, like the how doesn’t matter to her.
‘But I can’t see much else, Mum.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve tried so many times in the past two years. But I seem to be totally blocked. I just get the same vision over and over again.’
She nods and then takes a deep breath. ‘Does Darren know?’
‘Yes…and only Darren. He guessed the very first time I met him because I had a vision in front of him. Turns out his auntie had some abilities, too, and he recognised the signs.’
‘So how—’
Dad’s question is interrupted by my mobile phone.
‘Sophie Anderson.’
‘Sophie, it’s Lily Murphy.’
‘Hi.’ My stomach clenches, fearful she’s going to cancel on me tonight and cut me out of the case.
‘Thirty-six hours ago a boy went missing from his home just outside of Seymour. Ten years old, living on a three-hundred-acre cattle farm.’
‘They think it’s our guy?’ I lean forward, triggering my seatbelt’s locking mechanism and my parents’ faces freeze.
‘Not sure yet. But every report of a missing boy between the ages of eight and fourteen is being flagged for follow-up.’
‘Of course.’ It’s an essential step, but that flag would be taking up a lot of resources. For eight or ten year olds foul play is more likely, but for the eleven to fourteen year olds running away is more feasible. Regardless, every lead, every missing boy, has to be chased down.
‘This one’s made its way up to us because it fits our criteria. And the local cop reckons this is out of character for the boy.’
‘I see.’ Police have probably been briefed on what to look for in recent missing persons files, such as the child going missing overnight from the home. Lots of kids sneak out in the middle of the night, but they’re usually back a few hours later. ‘I’m on my way back to Melbourne from Euroa. We’ll be driving right by the Seymour exit in twenty minutes.’
‘Then you might just beat Faulkner. He left with Shaw and Danahay about forty-five minutes ago. You’re on your own with the cops on-scene, but I’ll give you the address. And whatever you do, don’t mention my name.’
‘Thanks, Lily.’
‘No worries. Make sure you’re gone by the time Faulkner gets there, okay?’
‘Will do. Are we still on for tonight?’
‘Of course. See you at my place at seven-thirty.’
As we make our way up the long driveway to the farmhouse, I’m automatically thinking about the perpetrator—or perpetrators. Could he have dragged a victim from the house all the way down to his vehicle on the road? The house is set back nearly a kilometre from the main road, so that’s some hike. Two perps certainly would have made that easier. Or perhaps he was bold enough to drive onto the private property in the dead of the night.
Our car rattles along the last section of the dirt track, surfing bumps as hard as corrugated steel. The land is dry and mostly brown, but we have been in a drought for years and if today’s an example we’re having a hot spring. A small veggie patch to the right of the house is the only sign of a garden or greenery—either the owners aren’t keen gardeners or they’re waving the white flag at the Australian sun. Why waste water on roses when the cattle and veggies need it? Off to one side is a swing-set, but it looks like it hasn’t been used for a year or two.
The mud-brick house has a steel roof and a wooden veranda running along its front. A lone cop car sits at the top of the driveway, a four-wheel drive Ford covered in brown dust…obviously local. A uniformed officer leans on the car, looking bored. At least we’ll be a break for him.
Dad pulls the car to a stop.
They’re both about to get out of the car when I say, ‘I have to be quick. I think it’s better if I go in alone, and, besides, we don’t know for sure that this is related and your presence might panic the family even more.’
Silence.
‘We don’t need to tell our story again.’ Please don’t make me say it all again. I wait, hoping my parents will concede.
Eventually Mum gives a little nod. ‘Good luck, darling.’
I climb out of the back seat and make my way over to the cop.
His expression has changed from boredom to mild curiosity. ‘You friends? Relatives?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m a profiler from Melbourne.’ So far, so true.
‘Ah, the big guns made it here already, huh?’ Cynicism weaves thickly through his voice.
I smile. ‘Hardly big guns. Homicide’s on its way but I’ve got a few questions for the boy’s parents first.’ Please don’t ask me for ID. Please.
He glances at my mum and dad in the car—they sure as hell don’t look like law enforcement.
‘I’m off duty. We were visiting cousins in Euroa when I got the call.’
He nods and gives me a real smile. Family in Euroa…I’m no longer a city slicker, a “big gun”. He jerks his head to the door. ‘Up you go then. Me partner’s inside.’
‘Thanks.’ I walk up five stone steps and notice a football underneath an outdoor table, like it was thrown there as someone ran inside.
The front door is open, but thick mesh on an outer flywire door means I can only see a few metres into the house. I knock twice on the wooden frame and within a few minutes a second uniformed officer comes into view. He’s older than his partner, with tanned and weathered skin and more grey than black in both his hair and beard.
‘Hullo?’ He opens the wire door.
‘Hi. I’m a profiler from Melbourne here to interview the parents.’
‘Already? Must have broken some speed limits to get up here. Better show us your ID, then.’
‘I’m actually off duty at the moment. I was in Euroa with my parents visiting family, and I left my badge at home.’ I shrug my shoulders and look at the ground sheepishly.
‘And they called you in on your day off? That’s rough.’
I shrug again, carefully avoiding actually impersonating an officer. I am a profiler, I am from Melbourne and I am off duty.
‘Can’t say I’ve ever met a profiler before.’ He puts his hand out. ‘Jamie Bell.’
‘Hi, Jamie. I’m Sophie. Sophie Anderson.’ Faulkner will know I’ve been here, but I’m not going to make up a fake name, and I’ve got more important things to worry about…like finding this boy. If he has been taken by our perp, we’ve probably got three to six months to find him alive, but I’d prefer to get this done in mere days. Ideally we’d get to him before the bastard hurt him physically or emotionally, but I’d say it’s already too late for that. Thirty-six hours or more is a long time to be held by a paedophile. In most cases involving a sadistic p
aedophile the victim’s dead within hours. And even though our guy’s different, the boy will already be highly traumatised.
Officer Bell leans in. ‘Do you think it’s related to Ted Strawasky?’ I can hear genuine concern in his voice. It’s a small community, so chances are he knows the victim. He could be the local cop who vouched for the disappearance being out of character.
‘Not sure yet. Do you know the boy?’
Bell runs a stocky hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. ‘Yeah. My son plays footy with Curtis Baker. I’ve known the Bakers for years.’ He blows out a deep breath and his lips vibrate. ‘Curtis is a good boy. He wouldn’t just run off. I’ve been trying to convince the St Kilda Road Office that this was extremely suspicious for the past day and a half.’
I nod. Bell was helping his friends out, as well as doing his job and making sure Curtis Baker’s disappearance was escalated in light of Ted Strawasky’s murder.
‘Ten years old, right?’ All this information would be in the missing persons report, which if I was really on the case I would have read. I didn’t even know the boy’s name.
‘That’s right.’
I nod.
‘Too young for…this.’ He winces.
Forced and violent sexual encounters are horrific no matter what age, but Bell’s dwelling on the additional horror of cases involving young children—just like we all do. Innocence should never be violated.
He takes another deep breath. ‘Ready?’
I nod—it’s Bell who’s not ready.
‘Go easy on them, huh?’
‘Sure.’
He leads me down the hallway, past a large bedroom on the left, taking the first right into the living room. Beige carpet, well-worn, with a couple of stains and a few small, thread-bare patches. A burgundy rug sits under a wooden coffee table and a modern leather couch and two armchairs are pointed at a large-screen TV. The furniture looks new, even though the carpet is obviously at least fifteen to twenty years old. Through another door I can make out a casual dining room, and, past that, the kitchen.
