by Sharon Haste
'Party?' Sam asks.
'Christmas party,' Charli responds with her eyes on the sheets.
'How many people were there?'
'Around a hundred, I think, if you include the kids.'
Her mother's voice was in her head, buzzing. 'Here he comes!' They looked up and twenty kids, hyped up on sugar and adrenaline, ran towards him, screaming at the top of their lungs. It was Jimmy from across the road. He cruised down the drive on a Harley motorcycle with a red suit on, complete with snowy beard and ruddy cheeks. The little kids hid behind their mother's legs, eyes moist with tears, while the bigger ones sprinted beside the bike, squealing and laughing. Tiny fingers tugged at his suit when he dismounted. They clambered after him into the cool of the lounge, where they took turns to sit on his knee and relay their Christmas list. Every child received a present; their faces lit up and their eyes were wide.
Charli glances up to see Sam frowning into her notebook while she scribbles. She continues with her mother's voice a constant in her ear, reminding her of what she did and where she went on that last day. She plods through it, dragging herself through a day she'd sooner forget, before arriving at her last memories. Dad waving as he disappears through the door with two old friends. Mum curled around Ash in his bed. She remembers the silken feel of her mother's hair and their salty skin against her lips. She hears the sound of their even breathing and remembers her walk along the hall to her room, the house creaking to the rhythm of the night. She can see her desk and bed and feel the sweet oblivion of sleep. That's where the memories stop and the nightmare begins.
That last memory stretches into awkward silence; her mind is desperate for more, but it finds nothing new. She coughs, feeling the detectives' eyes on her and sweat pricking her brow, despite the air-conditioned room. Her fingers strangle the sheet, and mild panic rises with the water in the car. She can feel it in her nose and mouth; her heart pumps and body trembles as she walks them through the feeling of sinking into the pitch black, strapped to a hulking metal anchor that she can't quite work out. She smells the lake, feels the compressed air as it fights for purchase in her lungs, and relives the agony of losing Ash all over again.
'I tried so hard to help him.' She gulps, wanting it to be over. Her breath catches. 'But it was no good.'
'What else do you remember?'
'A dog barking.'
They'd already spoken to the man with the dog. They found them at around one-thirty.
'Anything else?'
Charli's mind is blank, so she says nothing. She grips the sheet with her eyes down.
Mal exhales, and she senses his frustration, but she has nothing further to add. Her mind is fixed on the lake. Her eyes glaze over. She's barely listening as Sam reads back her statement; her mind tiptoes through memories that are too painful to recall. She picks them up, one by one, dumping them into a hole, and she cocoons herself from their torment. Sam's voice creeps into her mind, dragging her back to the room, and she confirms every detail with a poised pen. Charli nods, clenches and releases her fists, and chews on a ragged nail. She can't remember getting into the car or why they were at the lake. Someone tried to tell her she was driving, but it's a mistake; she can't drive. Then she feels the steering wheel beneath her fist. She smashed it as the water rose. She checks her fist, pressing at the flesh there, and feels the tender bruise. 'I wasn't driving,' she almost shouts. She is frightened of her own memories.
She looks up into golden eyes that crinkle at the corners. The detectives are leaving. Her eyes dart around the room. No, don't leave. She doesn't want to be alone. Her hand shoots out of its own accord, and she grips the detective's wrist. What's her name? Sam. Don't leave me, Sam, please.
'Everything all right?' Sam asks, patting the hand gripping her arm; her face is passive. Charli stares at her, and then, in slow motion, she looks at her hand and loosens her grip and lets it drop to the sheet.
'Sorry,' she mumbles.
'Are you all right?' Sam asks again.
Charli nods. The nurse places a cool hand on her other arm. She rubs circles there. It grounds her, keeping her in the room and away from the dark. Sam is smiling at her, pressing a card into her hand.
'Call me if you remember anything,' she says. Her smile is warm and genuine.
Charli nods, her mind floating above the scene. She watches her body slump to the pillows, the card crushed in her hand, while the nurse is talking. She watches Sam walk toward the door, lingering, while Mal strides ahead. Sam turns. There's concern etched on her face. She hefts her bag to her right shoulder and steps through the door.
Her thoughts meander, plucking images from her mind: her mother's silken hair falling through her fingers, the softness of her touch, and the smell of jasmine every time she walks into a room. She wants to float up here forever, where she can remember and feel nothing. She crashes back into her damaged body. She's sitting up in bed with her back against the bed frame and her knees up. The nurse is still talking.
'Your dad should be back soon,' she says. 'Can I get you anything?'
Ignoring the question, she drops to her side, squeezes her eyes closed, and yearns for the dark, wishing at that moment that she, too, were found on the bottom of the lake.
Chapter Four
The Richters live in a sweeping two-storey house, with a gate guarded by an electric intercom system and a six-foot-high, rendered brick fence painted pale grey, in Delany's Northern suburbs. There are a couple of reporters outside the gate, and they rush towards the detectives in a bid to glean some news. Mal berates them in gruff monosyllables, and they back off, lowering their cameras, and their faces assume their previous impartial expressions. Mal presses the intercom and waits, tapping his fingers on his thigh. The gate glides open, wide enough to allow them to walk through, before closing behind them.
Thomas swings the door open when they're halfway across the expansive veranda and ushers them inside. He's tall enough to eyeball Mal, and they shake hands as introductions are made. Thomas has a dark complexion and a handsome face with near-black eyes and a tapered nose that is interrupted by a bump in the middle from a previous break. He's a solid build with broad muscular shoulders and narrow hips. He has dark hair, still wet from the shower, that is cropped short. His hand is warm, and his handshake is firm as he welcomes Sam with a politician's smile.
'Come through to the kitchen,' he says. 'I've just made a fresh pot of coffee. Can I tempt you?'
They both nod, and he ushers them to a round table with ten chairs in an open-plan, state-of-the-art kitchen that is finished in red and black. Sam drinks in the opulent, yet homey, feel; she is in awe of the polished, granite bench tops, stainless steel appliances, and shiny cupboards. Discarded bottles, empty glasses, and an array of serving dishes are stacked by the sink. Tinsel and party lights hang from the ceiling; their festive intent is out of place in the macabre circumstances.
A couple of uniformed police enter from the backyard, greeting them with professional sobriety and informing Thomas they are finished for now, but they may return at a later date. He escorts them to the door in a polite and agreeable manner. Sam scans the kitchen, eyes falling on a family portrait, hand drawn by a young child, stuck to the fridge. Next to the drawing are the Richter children both smiling in separate school photos. There's a hand-painted pot in the corner; it is bright yellow with red flowers, and a tiny cactus peeps over the top. Jars of cereal, nuts, cookies, colourful sweets, and other treats are interspersed between the party leftovers: party poppers and champagne bottles from the previous night.
Thomas returns to the coffee machine and, adept at small talk, chats about the weather and politics until he crosses to the table with a pot of aromatic brew and three cups. He lowers himself to a chair, and Sam notices the drawn look and dark shadows beneath his eyes.
To her surprise, Mal kicks off the interview, asking Thomas for his name, address, and permission to proceed. She digs into her bag for a handheld recorder and her notebook and pen. Th
e pen, however, has melded with the contents of her bag and eludes her. Thomas comes to the rescue with a beautiful silver pen engraved with his name. She thanks him and lifts the recorder, to which he nods. He nurses his coffee cup in his trembling hands.
Mal conducts the interview with the grace of a wrestler; his delivery is blunt, yet precise. His methods never earn him friends, but they get the job done. Thomas sits, his face composed; only his eyes give him away. Sam loses herself in those eyes; there's so much depth and feeling there. He speaks in a dignified, quiet tone—one well used to the spotlight—taking them back to Saturday night.
He returned from having a drink with old friends around two and found some lights still on and the house empty. When he checked the garage, Clare's car was gone. Concerned, he tried Clare's mobile and found her phone ringing on Ash's bedside cabinet. While it's not unusual for his wife to leave her phone behind, his concern escalated when he also found Charli's phone in her room.
'You know what kids are like these days,' he says. 'Their phones are like a body part. She doesn't go anywhere without it.'
He paced around the house for awhile, trying to work out what to do, and because he'd had too much to drink, he couldn't drive around to look for them. He decided to wait it out for a while, expecting them to burst through the door at any minute.
'I thought she must've driven someone home or something and maybe got caught up talking.'
He admits to falling asleep on the lounge in front of the television and being woken at three-thirty by the intercom buzzer.
'I thought Clare must have left her buzzer behind and couldn't get in,' he says. 'It was a shock to see the police there. I knew they had bad news as soon as I looked at their faces.'
The poker face disintegrates, and his head drops. He presses his thumbs to his swelling eyelids.
'Take your time,' Sam says, searching the kitchen for some tissues. She retrieves a box from the bench top and places them on the table in front of him. He takes a breath, apologises and continues.
'I...they wanted me to identify the bodies, so I...I had to go to the morgue. It was them. I couldn't believe it.... I thought it was a mistake. But there they were: Clare and Ash.'
He looks up; his eyes are brimming, and his face is flushed. Sam plucks a tissue from the box and presses it into his hand.
'We are sorry for your loss, Mr Richter. We know this is hard; take your time,' she says.
Mal sips his coffee and waits with uncharacteristic patience while Thomas composes himself. Sam watches, fascinated, as his public mask falls into place—his eyes dry, and his lips curve into a half smile.
'Sorry,' Thomas says.
'Shall we continue?' Mal asks, straightening his back.
'Go ahead,' Thomas says.
'Is there someone who can verify your whereabouts on Saturday night? The names of your friends?' Mal asks.
'Mick Cutler and Edward Reid. We've been friends for years. We went to Ed's for a couple of drinks, and I left there around one-forty, I guess. I used a blue cab to get home, so they can verify that.'
Mal nods while Sam scribbles the details on her page.
'Tell us about your wife, Thomas. What kind of person was she?'
Sam sees him falter for a split second before launching into the attributes of Clare Richter. His face is unchanged, but his fingers tremble around his mug, and his eyes show a depth of feeling that takes Sam's breath away. He loved her so much.
'And Charli?' Mal asks, diplomatic—yet icy—in his approach.
'Charli's a great kid. Always has been. Course being a teenager has its moments, but she's not that bad. Not compared to others.'
'Does your daughter do drugs?'
'Drugs? No. Not as far as I'm aware. Charli's a good kid. She is anti-smoking and drugs.'
'We found some pills on her person last night. We're having them analysed, but we're pretty certain they're a medication called Rohypnol. Are you familiar with this drug?'
'No, I mean of course I've heard of it. Who hasn't? There were big media campaigns about it a few years back when they started using it for raping women. We did everything in our power to stop its use.'
'Correct, sir. Do you have any idea why your daughter would be in possession of such a drug?'
'No. There must be some mistake. Charli would never have such a thing. She never takes drugs.'
'Did you know Charli was driving the car?'
His brows furrow, and his face is etched with concern.
'Are you sure?'
'She was in the front of the vehicle when it went down. Your wife and son were in the back.'
'Well, she may have been in the front, but Charli wasn't driving. She doesn't know how. Only got her learner's permit a couple of weeks ago. She wouldn't have driven. I know my daughter.'
'What about in an emergency? Do you think she could have driven then?'
'Well, I'm not sure, maybe. But this wasn't an emergency, they were at the lake.'
'Do you have any idea who may have been the driver of your wife's vehicle, if not your wife or daughter?'
'No, I thought everyone had gone home when I left last night.'
'Do you know why they were at the lake?'
'No idea. I haven't stopped thinking about it. I know they loved the lake, but they wouldn't go there in the middle of the night to check out the ducks, would they?'
'Were any of your daughter's friends still at the house? Maybe sleeping over?'
'No, Charli's best friends, Ella and Zoe, are off on holidays. Ella left for London with her family, so she couldn't stay over. And Zoe is already in New Zealand with her sister. I don't think she asked anyone else.'
'Does she have a boyfriend? Maybe one with a license?'
'No, she doesn't have a boyfriend, with or without a license.'
'What about her other friends? People she hangs out with? Who was at the party?' Mal asks.
'Charli is a popular girl and has lots of friends. She invited lots of kids to the party, but none stayed over. I'm sure some of her friends have their license, but I don't think any of them would drive Clare's car into Delany Lake. They're nice kids from good families.'
'Do you have their numbers?' he asks. 'We'll need a list of guests at the party last night and their contact information, too.'
Thomas nods and forces his lips into a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes, and Sam sees frustration lurking there. He pushes his chair back and rises to his feet.
'Excuse me, the guest list and other contacts are on my computer. I'll only be a minute. Help yourself to more coffee.'
Mal uses the opportunity to stretch and walk around the room; his grey eyes swing back and forth, scrutinising. He peers through the window into the backyard—his taut, aging body bent forward ever so slightly. He removes his glasses and polishes them from a folded handkerchief in his trouser pocket.
Thomas returns, gliding into his seat, with two printed pages in his hands. He pushes them across the table to Sam.
'The guest list and a list of Charli's friends. Most of them were here last night with their parents.'
Sam lifts the pages, scanning the list, before folding them in half and tucking them into her bag.
'Thanks,' she says with a smile.
Mal returns to the table but doesn't sit down.
'Can we see your daughter's room, please?'
Thomas nods, rising to his feet. Sam follows. As they move through the Richter's home, she can't help but gape at the obvious luxury surrounding them. The Christmas tree stands in a room to the right, almost touching the ceiling. It is adorned with vibrant colour and glitter; the lights are still winking, and an angel smiles at the top. The stairs are like something out of a movie: it has massive beams of polished wood with a curved balustrade. Mounting them was like starring in a romance film; all she needed was the long sweeping skirts and handsome suitor.
'The policemen who came this morning already looked at all the rooms,' Thomas says. 'They took a journal and some other
bits and pieces, but it should be as she left it. The cleaners were booked for nine this morning, but they said I had to hold off until they finished, so I told them to come back tomorrow.'
He pauses, at the top of the stairs, and points right.
'That's our room, and Charli's is this way.'
He heads left, pushes open the second door, and enters the room. Mal and Sam follow him. Sam's eyes pop at the neat appearance of the room, the memory of her own catastrophic bedroom coming to her mind.
Charli's room is spacious with white walls and light tiles on the floor. Her bed is queen-sized, with a stunning embroidered quilt in green and red, and filled with various scatter pillows. Nestled amongst the soft furnishings is a well-worn teddy bear. Framed prints and watercolours bring life to the room; the faces and scenes are realistic and detailed. Thomas catches Sam looking at the artwork.
'They're hers,' he says. 'She's quite the artist.'
Sam's eyes widen as she stares into the face of Clare Richter; the portrait's eyes follow her through the room.
'That's Clare,' Thomas says, pointing. 'And that's Ella and Zoe. They've all been friends for years. That one there she painted from a photo she took in France.'
Sam nods in awe. She reaches out and picks up Charli's phone from the bedside table, turning it on. It's locked.
'Do you have the code?' she asks Thomas.
'I do,' he says. 'That's one thing we insisted on when she got it, so there'd be no secrets.'
Sam's impressed as he reaches for the phone and taps in a four digit code, bringing it to life. She scans her messages and calls but finds nothing concerning. The photo gallery has a range of selfies and shots of friends and family. She has no videos. She places the phone on the cabinet and thanks Thomas. On face value, Charli seems ordinary, given her father's position and her family's wealth.
The glass-top desk is clutter-free, except for a white Apple laptop, a half-burnt candle in a decorative container, and an upright rainbow cylinder crammed with pens and pencils. There's a pile of textbooks and notebooks stacked on the floor near the desk chair. A walk-in-wardrobe completes one end of the room, and a bathroom completes the other. Both are clean and tidy. The bathroom has a small collection of makeup, a hair straightener—still plugged in but turned off—and a tidy pile of laundry beside the clothes hamper in the corner. The room is different from most teen bedrooms. It doesn't reek of hormones, attitude, or smelly socks. It is a place of relaxation and joy.
