The Last Time

by Sharon Haste

  Thunderous clouds scud across a darkening sky, promising relief. She can almost smell the heat and moisture of the forming rain. She races across the road, buys a takeaway chicken laksa, and hurries back just as the first fat drops fall. She closes the door as the sky opens to the deluge. Thunder rumbles and occasional flashes light her office. She stares through the grimy window as the downpour cleanses the street below, peeling back the layers of dust that will begin anew when the skies clear.

  As she slurps her noodle soup, she goes over the Richter case, her resolve to clean up disappearing in her frustration of getting nowhere. It has been two days since the unexpected deaths of Ashley and Clare Richter, and they were no closer to solving the case than when they arrived on the bank of the lake. Mal thought it was just the case of finding the Richter girl, and they would have their killer.

  'She was in the driver's seat; she had the Rohypnol,' he says. 'It's an open and shut case. Stop looking for something that isn't there, Harris.'

  When she protests that Charli would remember getting in the car if she indeed drove it to its final resting place and that she wouldn't leave the tablets in her pocket if she drugged her family, she'd have thrown them out, he responds by telling her more and more teenagers kill their parents and siblings these days.

  'Just face it, Harris. They're not all as innocent as they look. The world is changing. She is lying about losing her memory. She knows exactly what happened.'

  She's not convinced, and whether it was an accident or not, Mal seems set on making sure she ends up in Delany Juvenile, a living hell for a girl like her. She's not sure why he's being so stubborn about it. Why would Charli kill her family? By all accounts, the Richter family were very close, especially the mother and kids. She flicks through the case file. They have interviews from dozens of people who were at the Christmas party as well as neighbours, friends, teachers, parents from the kids' schools, and other family members. They all tell the same story: the Richters are the fairytale, happier than most people, and despite their wealth, they were sociable, caring, and community-minded, donating to several local charities and doing more than the average Joe. There's nothing to indicate Charli is unstable, wayward, or suffering from mental illness. Motive features heavily in their work, and as far as Sam can see, Charli Richter does not have one.

  They're even hard pressed to find anyone who says a bad word about the father, and he's a politician. Only one name is mentioned, Harvey Walter, Thomas's biggest political rival, who does not enjoy living in the shadow of the adored Thomas Richter. Must be a tough gig, Walter, but is it enough motive to kill his family? Power is often a motivator in the most heinous crimes. She adds Harvey Walter to her list. He's worth another chat.

  Thomas Richter is squeaky clean and wholesome. Maybe some of his staff will share some dirt on him? Nobody is that pure. Sam has done a preliminary media search and so far there are no skeletons in Thomas Richter's closet, although they're still looking for a brother that may be in the country. Funny how Thomas didn't mention him in their interview. She chews on the end of her pen. The other puzzling factor is that Charli has disappeared. So where is she and why'd she run? Her actions have fuelled Mal's conviction that she's guilty, and Sam feels some urgency to find her before he does. She tries to put herself in the girl's shoes, tapping the pen against her chin and wondering where she would go. To friends? Family? She has no money, her key card is tucked in her phone case, and her accounts haven't been touched. Besides, what teenage girl doesn't take her mobile phone? It's pretty much like amputating a limb these days. Her sense is that Charli Richter is in trouble and doesn't know where to turn for help.

  'But someone is helping you, Charli, aren't they?' she said aloud. 'A girl like you could hardly stay hidden from the police on your own.'

  None of Charli's friends has seen her, and her best friends, Ella and Zoe, are both overseas with their families. There are few relatives in the Richter-Fox clan. Clare's sister, Elizabeth, is devastated, and she said they were close. She's flown into Delany to help with the search and support Thomas. He seems to have no family in Australia except maybe the elusive brother. She thinks his family lives in South America or somewhere near there. They have the local police over there checking it out. There's no word from them yet. Sam's gut tells her that Charli Richter is still in Delany, and it's only a matter of time before Mal finds her, given his extensive contacts, both reputable and dubious in character. She needs to find her before he does, but she has no idea how.

  Thomas Richter is also a puzzle. He's a likeable man with a smile that's never far from the surface, the well-worn habit of a popular politician. He seems devoted to his family, although he is a slave to a job that often takes him away from those he loves for lengthy periods. Prior to becoming Chief Minister, he worked as a backbench politician, and his job was less demanding, as a rookie's life often is. He comes across as too brave and amenable to the press, which is not in keeping with his political background. She's seen him mould the media many times and wonders what his current motives are. She taps her finger on her chin while she mulls this over, searching for the answers.

  They have no other real suspects, but there's a family friend whose photo was in the paper that was seen entering the Richter estate yesterday. She rifles through newspaper clippings to the photo of Rebekah Lopez. She is a stunning brunette with a look of wide-eyed surprise behind the wheel of a brand new corvette. Why do you have a control to the gate, Rebekah? Sam scribbles her name on her notepad and rifles through the interviews until she finds the one with Rebekah's name at the top. She was thankful Mal had insisted on help from the uniformed police to get through the business of interviewing the hundred guests at the Christmas party. The cloying heat had almost undone her. She was sick of traipsing door to door with her nerves frayed by barking dogs. Flies and sweat dampened her shirt and made it cling to her skin. She'd been glad to share the load. Rebekah was on the recall list, which means she wasn't at home when they called. She only lives a few doors down from the Richters. Why did she drive to the house rather than walk? Sam jots down the address, planning a house call later in the day.

  She checks her watch and decides to postpone her desk cleaning in lieu of returning the long list of calls from well-meaning citizens with important information. It was policy to return every call, email or letter, lest they miss something critical. Behind door knocking in the wet season, it was Sam's least favourite job, and one that Mal always allocated to her with a superior smile. Why don't you retire already, you smug bastard? She'd thought as he handed her the list and left to pursue other 'more important' matters that could not be discussed. She lifts the phone and dials the first number.

  'Hello, may I speak with Mr Attenborough?'

  Chapter Twelve

  Saffron Brown has known Tobi and Jael for years and slept on Rosas's couch from time to time. She met Jael at school before he started at St Joseph's and they cemented their friendship by running away together when they were twelve. Jael introduced her to Tobi and then Aunt Rosa so she'd have a place to stay when she was stuck. Saffron kinda liked her couch surfing existence, although there were days when she longed for a place to call home and a family to love.

  At fourteen, Saffron was still a child in the State's eyes, despite the fact that she felt old enough to make her own decisions. This forced her to stay in a foster care system that had never satisfied her or given her what she needed to feel safe and happy. These days, most of her time in their care was spent at a hostel rather than with families. Her social worker, Kate, thought it was waste of time placing her because she always ran away in the first week and gave Kate more grey hairs than she already had; and made it difficult to find new foster parents who wanted a disengaged teenager.

  She'd been at Rosa's for the past couple of days and hadn't seen Tobi once. Rosa said he was having a gaming marathon with Dean, a computer nerd that lived a few blocks away. She said he'd done it before and stayed away for almost three days last tim
e.

  'When he came home, I told him to go back to school or find another place to live and so he went back. He's a good boy, most of the time. He's applying for a scholarship, you know, for his music,' Rosa said.

  Saffron could hear the pride in her voice and wished someone felt that way about her. She'd not been to school for a few weeks now and hoped Rosa didn't ask her about it. She hated lying to her. She knew she wouldn't get a good job unless she had a piece of paper to prove she could do it, but she found it impossible to listen to teachers who droned on in their own little world, oblivious to how boring they were.

  She regarded the old woman with affection. Rosa was always so good to her, and she wished she could stay, but she felt guilty about putting further stress on Rosa’s already stretched finances. She had to figure something out and pretty soon. She was running out of options. Saffron fingered the folded piece of paper near the sink and wondered if it held the answer to her problem.

  She dropped the towel wrapped around her body, pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and picked up her small purse by the sink. She unzipped it and took out the only photo she carried with her. It was a well-worn snapshot of her mother holding her soon after her birth. Her mum's hair was swept back into a ponytail; her young face was alive with wonder at the tiny child in her arms. She tucked it safely away and flung her cloth bag over one shoulder before she slipped out the door and told Rosa she'd be back in time for supper. Rosa cupped her face between her hands and kissed each cheek and gave them both a quick pinch before she set her free.

  'Be a good girl, Saffie,' she called after her.

  She sat at the bus stop for forty minutes and climbed aboard when it arrived, grateful to be on her way and to be doing something at last. She'd spent most of her life running from or accepting her lot, and she felt decisive now that she was taking action. She would try to figure out a plan when she got there. She dug the piece of paper out of her pocket, studied it for the hundredth time, and committed the address to memory.

  Her nerves jangled as the bus bumped nearer to her destination, and she wondered what the house would look like. The bumpy road and lack of sleep made her eyelids droop, and she nodded off. They flicked open just as the bus ground to a halt at her stop. Groggy and disoriented, she staggered to her feet and stumbled down the steps before the bus hissed forward.

  She sat on the seat at the bus stop awhile to shake the sleep, suddenly too anxious to move. What am I doing? She rose to her feet with hesitation and took a few steps to her right. She turned around and slumped to the bus stop seat again. She contemplated her options and decided she had nothing to lose. Before she changed her mind again, she got to her feet and strode off.

  Her sense of purpose deserted her when she neared the house. Her eyes grew wide, and saliva dried in her mouth. She pulled out the paper and checked the address again. This is it. Her eyes peered through the rungs of the electric gate to the large, imposing two-storey house with a veranda in the front; and a cement-rendered fence separating it from the street. She hesitated a minute while her heart slammed against her ribs. Her eyes scanned the top of the fence before she walked to the gate to try her luck. She tugged on the gate with shaking hands and felt it give. Her heart sang in victory, and she inched her way through, turning herself sideways to fit. Once inside, her nerves got the better of her, and she crouched behind a bush, psyching herself up for what lay ahead.

  What if she doesn't want to see me? Saffron sat on the grass and leant back against the fence, watching the sun's tiny footprints dance across her arms. Her mum was just out of high school when she was born and ill-equipped to bring up a small girl. She knew nothing of her father except a name. Photos of her as a baby showed a red-skinned, tiny waif with a shock of dark hair and a peaceful disposition. She knew her mother held her once, but she had no memory of being loved by her. All she knew was that she was given up; the bonds of love were not strong enough for her mother to keep her. A fat tear rolled down her cheek as she thought about how hard it must be to give away your own child. Her hand automatically rubbed her own flat stomach.

  She was motherless for a few days until the State found her a new home with Mary and Joe Brown. By all accounts, they were loving and adoring parents with a middle-class home in the south of the state. Saffron had fragments of memory from her time with them. She remembered the scratch of Joe's whiskers on the top of her head when she perched on his knee with her thumb plugged into her mouth and her back resting against his chest. The deep, masculine smell, even now, made her feel safe. She remembered Mary's soft, gentle touch, her light kisses, and warm hugs. Saffron knew she was loved for a time, however short. The day she lost them was cast in shadows; she only had fragments of memory interspersed with what she'd been told. They were in the car, and Saffron knew it was for her benefit.

  They were taking her to Black Rock beach because she had begged them to; she had wanted to swim and play in the sand. She was perched in the back while Mary and Joe were in the front, listening to the soundtrack from her princess song collection on the car's CD player. It was her favourite, and she always insisted they play it. Her parents were in the front warbling at the top of their lungs; Joe's tuneless notes caused good-natured teasing from both Saffron and Mary. Her mermaid princess song was playing. The road was wet from a sprinkle of rain, and the next thing Saffron knew, she was hanging upside down from her seat belt and her mother's face was staring at her with her eyes wide and a trickle of blood at her left temple. That face was etched in her memory, no matter how she tried to shake it. Both Mary and Joe were killed in the crash, a five-car pile-up on the Nepean Highway, that made headlines across the country. Five were deceased, and Saffron was among several people who went to the hospital. By some miracle, she was unhurt, saved by her seatbelt and perhaps a guardian angel of sorts. While she had no visible injuries, the hidden scars ran deeper than anyone ever knew.

  With her new parents dead, Saffron became a ward of the State. She had flashes from the time after the accident. Placed in the hands of strangers, she withered, guilt snatching the light from her and casting her into years of darkness, where she allowed nobody to get close. Being abandoned by her second mother was catastrophic, even though it wasn't Mary's fault. Her mind, once a fertile ground for love, became a wasteland of disappointment and empty promises, pushing her towards a very different life. She raged against the world in the years that followed, neither giving or receiving affection and ending up alone.

  Despite her obvious intelligence, Saffron's school grades were a source of constant disappointment for her social workers and various foster parents. Some thought her dim-witted and encouraged her into sports or creative activities; others told her just to try harder. It made no difference; Saffron was bored at school: the work was too easy, and her mind was too prone to imagination. Only one teacher discovered her true ability and gave her separate projects. While the rest of the class laboured over algebra and arithmetic, Saffron designed playgrounds for the school, drafted building extensions, and designed new gardens. She loved each project, thriving on the independent work. But the teacher was promoted and moved to another school after three years, and school became dull once more.

  She was twelve when she ran away for the first time. She was hanging out in the shade of one of the school's fig trees one day, her thoughts in another realm, when she realised she was no longer alone. A skinny, dark-skinned boy was leaning against the same trunk a few metres away, panting hard and dripping with sweat. Saffron glared at him; his male stink invaded her privacy. He glanced over and said 'hey' before turning back to squint at the football game playing out on the school oval. It was a regular lunchtime event, and Saffron had seen the boy tearing around the field, often being overtaken by the much larger boys and slammed into the ground. She wrinkled her nose and wondered why anyone would keep going back for more, but every time his nose was squashed into the grass, he'd leap to his feet and run on bony legs after the ball.

  After the
first time, the boy always sought refuge under the tree for a break, and Saffron got used to his smell and accepted his presence. After a week or so, he reached out a skinny hand and spoke.

  'I'm Jael.'

  'Saffron,' she said, as she took his proffered hand and gave it a shake, surprised by the strength she found there.

  With the ice broken, they started to talk while they sat, and she became more interested when he hit the field, cheering him on inside her head. At the beginning, they stayed on safe subjects: how much school sucked and which teachers were the worst. Then, one day, he asked about her family. Her body stiffened, and her lips pressed together. She feigned interest in a line of ants at her feet and placed a stick in their path so they'd have to reform their line around it. Sensing her discomfort, Jael launched into his own story.

  'I come from a family of eight kids,' he said, looking out to the game of football he'd just left. 'We moved here from Liberia five years ago.'

  She glanced over at him, but his eyes were on the game.

  'We lived in a camp there for three years before that. Three of my brothers were born in the camp,' he said. 'Two were twins, but they died before they were six months old.' He paused, his eyes following a line of play on the grassy field. 'And my sister was only a year old when we first went in, and she didn't make it either. There were family wars inside the camp, and sometimes they'd fight. She got hurt in the crossfire, a rock to her head. She never knew what hit her and never woke up.'