by Chris Taylor
She handed them over to Clayton, knowing their significance was not lost on him. He looked at them for a few moments before turning to encompass both of the Battens.
“We’d like to keep these, if we may. They might be of some use to us finding out what happened to Sally.”
Robyn struggled against the chair, moving her bulk into a more comfortable position as she peered up at him.
“You don’t think Rick had anything to do with it, do you? For all his failings…” She stared defiantly at her husband. “That boy really loved her.”
Ellie looked down at her notebook. “Mrs Batten, you said you called Rick when you couldn’t reach Sally. Did you end up speaking with him?”
Her eyes clouded over. “Yes, he told me he hadn’t seen her for almost a week. They’d had a fight and she hadn’t called him.”
Ellie exchanged another look with Clayton. So, they could have broken up after all, just like the friend had said. Her pulse continued to pick up its pace. It could be the break they were waiting for. They had to find Rick Shadlow.
Clayton stood and stretched to his full height. Ellie didn’t know how he’d managed to stay squatting for so long. She mused about the strength of his thigh muscles.
Refusing to allow her thoughts to wander anywhere down that path, she favored the Battens with a slight smile, mindful of their grief, but unable to completely contain her excitement.
“Thank you so much for talking with us. We know how tough it is for you and we really appreciate it.” She offered her hand to both of them.
Clayton did the same before turning to usher her toward the door. As they reached the doorway, he turned and posed a final question.
“Mrs Batten, do you know if anyone saw Sally leaving work that afternoon?”
“Yes, Colleen Mayger, a girl she works with, said she saw her getting into a cab.” She shrugged. “It was still raining.”
* * *
Ellie was already on the phone by the time Clayton made it to the car. She paced up and down the sidewalk. He could feel the excitement pulsing off her in waves.
“Yeah, Rick Shadlow, the boyfriend we checked out when Sally went missing. He lives in that dump on the southern side of Mt Druitt. Can’t tell you his date of birth, but he’s around twenty-five. There’s a chance he’s got a record. Can you run a check for me?”
She paused, listening to someone on the other end of the line. He waited in silence at the curb. The car was still locked and Ellie had the keys.
“Thanks, Luke. Fantastic. I know I don’t have to tell you I need them, like, yesterday.” She grinned into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll see. Talk to you soon.” Ending the call, she turned triumphant eyes up to Clayton.
“This is it; I know it. Luke’s going to run a check on Shadlow. Just because we didn’t get a hit on his DNA or fingerprints, doesn’t mean we don’t have something on him.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Take it easy, Ellie. We don’t have much to go on yet.”
Her eyes widened in protest. “Hey, you heard what they said. He’s a loser, a dope-pusher. Probably been in trouble before. I remember now the place he lived in reeked of grass. Luke and I called on him weeks ago, when Sally was first reported missing,” she offered by way of explanation. Her eyes gleamed. “We have the breakup—”
“Alleged breakup. I’d like to reinterview Shadlow myself, get my own take on him—”
“And then there are the wood carvings.”
His hand tightened on the smooth pieces of wood he still carried. As she unlocked the car, he climbed in and pulled an evidence bag out of the glove box. Dropping the pieces into it, he closed the seal, scribbled the time and date on it and reached over to place it on the backseat before turning to face her.
“I know what you’re saying. But we need to take it slowly. We haven’t determined that he has any connection with either Josie Ward or Angelina Caruso. Besides, he’s not really the kind of guy who fits the profile. He—”
Her eyes flashed with sudden fury. “Oh, so just because you’re feeling inadequate and superfluous, you’re telling me I’m barking up the wrong tree? Is that it?” Without waiting for him to reply, she jerked the car into gear and pulled out onto the road.
“You know, the first minute I met you, I knew you were a stuck-up, arrogant, know-it-all Fed. You’re all the same. Every one of you. For a while there, I thought maybe I’d misjudged you. But I should have trusted my instincts.”
She flicked him a look full of scorn. Her color was high. A pulse beat frantically in her neck. She took a corner at break-neck speed. He gripped the armrest.
“Ellie, be reasonable. All I said was—”
“Reasonable? You’ve done nothing but hold me back since you got here. I’ve spent countless hours with you, chauffeuring you around while we wasted precious time on your hunches and now when we have our first real lead, you’re telling me to take it easy?”
She glared at him. Her eyes sparked green fire. A car slowed to turn in front of them and she braked heavily.
“For Christ’s sake, Ellie—either pull over or keep your eyes on the road. You might be harboring a death wish, but that doesn’t mean I am.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He groaned and ran his hand through his hair. “For Christ’s sake… Just forget it, okay?”
“No, I damn well won’t forget it! This has obviously got something to do with Jamie—who you would never have even known about if you hadn’t pried into my personal life by Googling me on the Internet.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? We’ve been over this. I told you why I did it. I care about you… I care a lot.”
Her mouth clamped shut. She stared hard at the road. “Yeah, well tell someone who cares back because I sure as hell don’t.”
He turned away and stared out the window. He refused to keep arguing with her. So much for following Riley’s advice; an apology was the last thing on his mind now. After speaking with his brother, he’d felt guilty enough about his actions to call Ellie, then and there and offer up a heartfelt apology. When she hadn’t answered, he’d been determined to do it the next morning. In person. It was probably better that way, anyway. But Ben had come in with the news about Sally and he hadn’t had a chance.
Now she wouldn’t be able to torture one out of him. His caution about Rick Shadlow had nothing to do with arrogance. He’d been a profiler for a long time. The description given to him by the Battens just didn’t fit. A typical psychopath rarely formed emotional attachments and when they did, it was for appearances’ sake only. According to Robyn Batten, Shadlow loved Sally. Clayton would have thought that if anyone could spot fake affections, it would be the girl’s mother.
And then there were the carved animals. Ellie was excited about them, but he’d looked at them closely. They’d been painstakingly and intricately created, with every minute detail carefully and lovingly added. He could almost feel the love when he’d held them in his palm. That was something else that didn’t sit well with the psychopath theory.
The ringing of Ellie’s phone interrupted his train of thought. She pressed the hands-free button to answer it.
“Baxter, that was quick. What have you got?”
“Well, you’re right about one thing; he’s got a record.”
“Whoopee. That’ll give us just about everything we need. I wonder why his prints didn’t show up when they ran the comparisons? We’ll need to run them again. I bet—”
“He’s not your guy.”
“What do you mean, he’s not my guy? You couldn’t have run checks on him that quickly.”
“No, of course I haven’t. But I checked the dates.”
She groaned in frustration. “What dates? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The dates of the disappearances. Well, the last two, anyway. According to the timeline, Sally Batten disappeared on June nineteen and Josie Ward on July third.�
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She drummed the steering wheel. “Yeah, that’s right. They went missing fourteen days apart.”
“Well, that’s the thing. It couldn’t have been Shadlow.”
“Why the hell not? For God’s sake, Baxter. Spit it out!”
“He was locked up for possession on June twenty-eight. It must have been soon after we paid him a visit. He didn’t make bail. He’s sitting on remand in Long Bay.”
“Fuck.” Ellie ended the call with a vicious stab at the phone.
Clayton kept his gaze averted. “You can say that again.”
“Fuck, fuck and double-fuck.” She banged her fist on the steering wheel and then turned to glare at him. “Don’t say another word.”
He sighed and shifted to stare out the window at the passing traffic. It wasn’t even lunchtime, but already he’d had enough of the day. He was just as disappointed as Ellie that their lead had fizzled out. Apart from the taxi lead, which certainly warranted further exploration, they were back to square one.
“Don’t think I’m apologizing Fed, because I meant every word I said.”
He turned to look at her, his gaze flicking over the rigid set of her jaw. “I guess that makes us even, then.”
They rode in tense silence all the way back to the city.
“Drop me off at the hotel. I’ve got a few things to do.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she muttered caustically underneath her breath.
He laughed in genuine amusement when she screeched to a halt outside his building.
“Thanks for the ride.”
She left him standing in a cloud of smoke.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Michelle Wilson smiled at the young couple that stopped beside her stall. A young girl about the age of her youngest daughter clutched the hand of the gentleman and smiled shyly back at her.
“Can I have a look at your dolls?” the child whispered.
Michelle smiled again. “Of course.” She leaned across and lifted one of them out of the display box. “This one has pretty blond hair, just like you.”
The little girl took the doll carefully, her eyes wide with delight. “She’s beautiful.”
The girl turned to the woman who stood beside her. “Look, Mommy. She’s got a real dress and shoes and she even has nail polish.”
The girl’s mother smiled indulgently down at the child. “You’re right, Jasmine. They are beautiful.” She lifted her gaze to Michelle’s. “The craftsmanship is incredible. Do you make them?”
Michelle flushed with pleasure. “No, not me. My husband. He’s the one who likes to potter around in the shed.”
“Well, he’s very talented. You must be very proud of him.”
Jasmine stood entranced by the doll, stroking the doll’s hair and face with awestruck fingers. The man next to her reached for his wallet. “How much are they?”
“Forty dollars,” Michelle replied. “Each doll is unique. My husband never makes two the same.”
“In that case,” the man replied, “they are a real bargain. And I agree with my wife. The quality is exceptional.”
Michelle smiled and nodded. “Thank you. I will be sure to tell my husband.”
Pocketing the bills given to her by the man, she watched them walk away, hand in hand, and sighed. For a moment, she longed for things to be different. Even though her husband had a job that brought in a steady income and her daughters went to good schools and she lived in a nice house on a nice street in a nice neighbourhood, she still wished things were different.
She’d known since she was a child that her husband wasn’t like the other boys. Even though they were only ten when they met, it was obvious to Michelle he was different.
The nuns and brothers to whom the government had entrusted their care also knew. Not a day went by in the orphanage when they weren’t punishing him for it. She could never understand it. So what if he liked to play with dolls? So what if he preferred to wear underwear that had been allocated to the girls? It wasn’t what the other boys did, but what did it really matter?
There had been many a time when she’d intervened and had sided with him against the others when a fight had erupted. More and more, it had seemed her husband had been in the middle of it. She hadn’t cared. She couldn’t stand to sit by and watch someone smaller and weaker get bullied for being different.
She was different, too. With her white-blond hair that fell below her knees, and her skin so pale it almost looked translucent, she’d also suffered more than her fair share of harsh taunts. She’d often cried herself to sleep at night, with her head pressed tightly against the hard, calico pillowcase and wished with increasing desperation to be more like the others—the children with their plain brown hair and ordinary skin tone. She didn’t even know where her coloring had come from. The orphanage was the only home she could remember.
Michelle sighed again, knowing to dwell upon the past was an exercise in futility. It didn’t change anything. Besides, there was much to be grateful for. Business at the markets had been brisk, as usual. It was only mid-morning, but already she’d sold more than half of her stock. The fact that her husband had been spending increasingly more time in his shed with his dolls and less time with his real life family wasn’t really an issue. Was it?
He’d been more withdrawn than usual the last few months, but she’d put it down to the pressures of his job. He’d been doing permanent night shifts since June and found it very hard to sleep during the day. She guessed it had something to do with his life at the orphanage when they’d been severely beaten if they’d been found anywhere near the dormitory during the daylight hours.
Still, she worried about him. She wished she could let it go, but she couldn’t.
* * *
As much as Clayton tried to switch it off, his brain kept returning to the puzzle. Spread out across his freshly made hotel bed were the files of each of the girls. He’d been at it all afternoon and even after he’d gone out for a solitary dinner of fish and chips down at Circular Quay, his mind had refused to let it go. His latest argument with Ellie had also kept him tense.
He’d walked to the Quay from his hotel. He’d hoped the cool August night and the sights and sounds of one of Sydney’s famous landmarks would soothe the jumble and confusion of his thoughts. He’d passed groups of tourists and locals enjoying a night out at the numerous restaurants that lined the promenade. Their bright holiday clothing and happy, carefree conversations distracted him momentarily, but not for long. Even the sound of the water lapping against the pier had failed to relax him.
Eventually, he’d called it quits and had made his way back up the hill to his hotel.
Now, he looked at the dates again.
Angelina Caruso was the first to disappear on May twenty-ninth. They now knew Sally Batten was the next to go missing on June nineteenth. A Tuesday, so her mother had said. Two weeks later, Josie Ward disappeared.
Something clicked in Clayton’s brain and he checked the files again. May twenty-ninth was a Tuesday. So was July third, the day Josie disappeared.
He had to tell Ellie.
Okay, it could probably wait until morning, but he wanted to hear her voice. Clayton’s heart thudded. There, he’d admitted it. He was falling for her. Hard and fast. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten. Late, but surely not too late.
He scrolled through his call log and then paused. What if she was still mad? What if she didn’t answer, like last night? He didn’t want to sit on this until morning. He could always call Ben, but this gave Clayton the excuse he’d been looking for to go and see her.
Picking up his jacket from the back of a chair, he shrugged it on, grabbed her card with the address and sat down to pull on his boots. Running his hand quickly through his hair and smoothing it down as best as he could, he grabbed his wallet and room key card off the table and headed out the door.
* * *
Ellie sighed and let the day’s frustrations seep out into the hot, soapy bath water. She cou
ldn’t believe the day she’d had. Thank God it was over. She cringed as she thought of the way she’d attacked the Fed. Okay, so he was a little conceited, but he definitely hadn’t deserved the heated spray she’d given him.
Though she’d arrived home as mad as hell, another hour of pacing and cursing and a healthy glass of merlot she’d barely tasted, had cooled her temper enough to think. She owed him an apology. Another one.
It would be so much easier if he didn’t rankle her like he did. The way he’d taken it upon himself to stick his nose into her private life had left her fuming and even though he’d apologized, she was sure he still didn’t really appreciate how much it had upset her. She wasn’t used to people prying into her life without her knowledge. It wasn’t something she’d ever experienced.
Reaching for her razor and the new bar of orange and frangipani-scented soap, she stuck one leg out of the water and lathered it. She’d been so busy the last few weeks, she hadn’t had a spare minute to indulge herself. The long, long workdays had, more often than not, extended into the night. She’d been lucky to manage a light meal, a quick shower and bed.
She observed the length of the hair on her soapy leg. A wry grin tugged at her lips. Lucky it was winter. It didn’t matter so much when she wore trousers every day. And even the few times she’d worn a skirt, the state of the hair on her legs was concealed beneath stockings or tights.
She finished running the razor along the length of her first leg and switched over. Giving it the same treatment, she rinsed off the soap and stood. Lifting her arms, she grimaced and padded across the bathroom to the shower. Taking the razor and soap in with her, she lathered and shaved under her arms, then reached for the shampoo.
Knowing it would leave her hair curling riotously and totally out of control—but wanting to feel clean all over—she scrubbed it and then applied conditioner. Rinsing out, she reveled in the luxuriant warmth and steam of the shower.
