Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  The bloody scene from the garage bubbles up in my mind.

  ‘Yes, it’s always difficult, especially when a victim is so young.’

  ‘Was he shot? That’s what I heard. I mean, what the hell?’ Cam shakes his head in disbelief. ‘It’s Fairhaven, not some dodgy suburb in Limerick.’

  ‘I really can’t comment.’

  ‘No, of course not. Sorry.’ Cam sighs and rubs his eyes. ‘He worked here, you know. Until about a month ago. I can picture him in the kitchen, mucking around with the staff . . . god, he was just a kid.’ With a sad smile, Cam adds, ‘I guess you deal with this kind of stuff all the time, but I’m just finding it hard to get my head around.’

  Ben returns the fish food and starts plucking fliers from the Fairhaven information display under the macaw photo.

  ‘It doesn’t really get easier.’ I remain impassive while Cam struggles with his emotions. ‘Do you know Rick’s girlfriend, Abbey Clark?’

  Cam sighs and blinks, clearly trying to pull himself together. ‘A little. Fairhaven isn’t a big place, especially during off-peak. She came into the restaurant with her friends sometimes, and I see her about the place. She works at the supermarket. Seems like a nice girl.’ He spins a pen around in his fingers. ‘But the Clarks aren’t regulars here or anything like that. Daniel, her dad, comes in occasionally and drinks too much, but as long as he keeps to himself I figure it’s better than him causing trouble somewhere else. Everyone knows what he’s like at home. It’s very sad.’ Cam grimaces. ‘Most of the lads I spoke to about Rick today reckon Daniel probably had something to do with what happened. He’s like a walking grenade—he completely lost it yesterday when the search for Abbey was called off. He was telling anyone who’d listen that Rick knew where she was.’

  I nod. ‘And how long did Rick work here?’

  ‘About a year, I think, waiting tables. A month or so ago he left to focus on setting up his landscape business. I was sad to see him go, but at least it was for a good reason.’ Cam shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘You know, I heard he broke up with Abbey. One of the other kids working here told me that. I know they were having troubles.’

  ‘What kind of troubles?’

  Smiling, Cam shrugs. ‘Just teenage stuff. Rick was always complaining she was moody. I told him to give her a break, seeing as she obviously had it pretty tough at home. Then a little while back he got it in his head she was cheating on him, but who knows? I lose track with those kids.’ He laughs, clearly trying to lift the mood. ‘It’s like musical chairs sometimes.’

  I wonder if Abbey really was involved with someone else. Rick might have just been paranoid—but if he was right, we urgently need to locate the mystery person and question them.

  I ask, ‘Did Rick cause you any trouble while he was working here?’

  Cam looks thoughtful. ‘Rick’s a good kid. Was. Had a bit of a short fuse sometimes, and every now and then he’d get a bit worked up about something, but he was a good worker. Like I said, I was sad to see him go.’

  ‘Did you know his brother Aiden?’

  ‘Only to say hello to. Nice guy. He’s a bit older than Rick, I think.’

  Next to me Ben starts to fidget. He tugs at my hand, and I run it through his hair.

  ‘Can we go, Mum?’

  ‘Sorry, mate, I’ve been hogging your mum,’ says Cam, leaning forward to give Ben a playful nudge on the shoulder. He grins, revealing two rows of perfect teeth. ‘Please go and settle in. I know you’re not exactly here for a relaxing break, but I hope you enjoy your stay, Detective.’

  ‘Gemma, please.’

  ‘Sure,’ Cam says agreeably, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet. ‘Gemma.’ He switches his attention to Ben. ‘You’ve got Vanessa Gordon looking after you while your mum’s working—right, buddy?’

  Ben nods. He seems slightly in awe of Cam.

  ‘Well, you are a lucky man. She’s the best.’

  I feel a flicker of concern. ‘How did you know Vanessa’s looking after Ben?’

  Cam smiles again, his face creasing attractively. ‘It’s been a big couple of days in Fairhaven, Gemma. First Abbey goes missing, then Tommy Gordon has his accident, and now of course there’s what happened today, but your arrival hasn’t gone unnoticed. You’re headline news.’

  I hold up the room keys and find myself returning his smile. ‘Well, thanks. I guess we’ll see you around.’

  ‘No worries. I live upstairs so I’m always around.’

  I feel oddly reluctant to leave the old-fashioned room, but I pull my gaze from Cam and hustle Ben through the door.

  A square of light hits Cam’s face, turning his blue eyes neon. ‘I’m working the bar tonight,’ he calls after us, his accent curling the words. ‘Come find me and I’ll shout you a drink. You deserve one after today.’

  Monday, 11 April

  5.57 pm

  Our room is surprisingly spacious, almost as big as my old apartment. I quickly tour the kitchenette, lounge, bathroom and bedroom, wondering how long we’ll be here. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror; I look pale and dishevelled. I wash off my make-up, wondering how the fuck we ended up here.

  After we’ve showered and unpacked, I realise I’m starving. But I also feel bloated, so the idea of eating isn’t as appealing as it should be. Ben is watching TV, momentarily distracted enough by the bogus plot to be free of his crushing pain. I fold my lips around my teeth, trying not to cry again. I feel so overwhelmed by what’s ahead of us, namely helping Ben face the horror of grief, knowing better than anyone that it doesn’t pass, it’s simply something you absorb over time until it becomes part of you.

  And for me, beyond this emotional rollercoaster is the brutality of the admin. The paperwork. The grown-up conversations and difficult decisions. Dealing with Jodie. Working out where to live. Determining how much of my old life I get to keep.

  My blood pressure drops and the floor tilts. I curl up on the double bed, counting the dots that form a swirling pattern on the bedspread. Reaching one hundred, I breathe out.

  I text Jodie, letting her know we’re fine. I send the same message to Dad, then I call Vanessa Gordon.

  ‘Hello!’ Her voice is rich and melodic. ‘I know the circumstances are awful, but I’m looking forward to meeting you and Ben tonight.’ We chat politely for a few minutes and arrange a time to meet at the pub. ‘I’ll be wearing purple,’ she says, laughing.

  I lie back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I can’t put it off any longer.

  I call Mac on FaceTime. ‘Hey, it’s me.’

  ‘Hey.’ His worried face appears on my screen. ‘I was just about to message you. How are you holding up? Did today go okay?’

  I can’t see the rest of the room, but I know there will be half a cup of tepid tea somewhere on his desk, and Arthur will be curled up nearby, purring loudly.

  ‘The funeral was horrible, obviously.’ I force a cough. ‘But, um, I’m actually working a case now.’

  Mac’s features tense. ‘What?’

  I fill him in on Jonesy’s call from Tran, the quick decision to come here and the drama at the crime scene.

  ‘Do you really think this is a good idea right now?’ he says stiffly.

  His light brown eyes are solemn behind his black-rimmed glasses, and his hair is more ruffled than usual, making me think of the last time I ran my hands through it. He’s wearing one of his expensive blue-checked shirts—I always joke they are his version of a police uniform, because he has at least six that are almost identical and never works without wearing one, even if he’s working from home. He was wearing one of those shirts when I met him.

  I heard about Mac when I first moved to Sydney: the former psychologist and lawyer who had switched to the police force in his mid-thirties, quickly making a name for himself as a formidable detective before escaping to the world of academia at the age of forty-three.

  A few years ago the commissioner lured him back to con
sult on complex homicides and cold cases, an appointment that paid off. Mac helped to put away some of the most notorious killers in the state. I’d occasionally caught a glimpse of him in large briefings or on the news. And I’d watched a couple of his lectures online, compelled by the rich tone of his voice and the unique way he talked about police work. He spoke of it as an art, a complicated dance. He likened interviewing a suspect to a song, the verses always softly leading back to the key question. The way he described what I had spent my adult life doing was incredibly validating. It was exactly what I had always felt about being a detective but could never articulate.

  About three months after I arrived in Sydney, Mac was presenting a lecture to senior detectives about the approach he’d taken to solve his past few cases. I missed the first five minutes of his presentation because I mixed up the conference room number, and I ended up running from one end of the university campus to the other. I burst into the theatrette, nodding an apology as the sea of eyes turned on me, and scurried up toward the back row, my new silk blouse sticking unflatteringly to my clammy skin.

  ‘You’re actually just in time for the audience participation,’ Mac boomed.

  It took me a second to realise he was talking to me. Unsure what to do, I reached my seat but remained standing while my stomach dropped to the floor.

  ‘I was just talking about the importance of personal vulnerability in this line of work,’ he said, locking eyes with me. I searched for a trace of humour in his gaze but found none. ‘Would you like to share a time in your career when you felt vulnerable?’

  Mortified, I stood there as perspiration trickled down my back. ‘Um, right now?’

  Everyone laughed, and I sat down, studiously avoiding eye contact for the rest of his lecture.

  After that I noticed Mac everywhere at work. Leaning against the back wall in my case briefings, his hands locked together in front of him, his eyes closed. And in the corridors at the Harbourside squad rooms. His demeanour belied his sharp mind, and I came to learn it only worked at one speed: turbo. Until Nicki he was only peripherally involved in my cases; even so, he’d send me emails after a briefing to suggest new angles and reference old cases. His ability to think laterally and with such empathy was very attractive. I found his quiet energy magnetic, and I wanted to impress him before I knew him.

  But I had no idea what was ahead of us as he spoke in the lecture theatrette that day. I just knew the bolt of electricity that ran up my arm when he shook my hand afterwards was unusual—after three years of shying away from anything remotely romantic, something had shifted. I liked this clever, handsome older man.

  That handshake took place less than four months before Nicki Mara went missing. Less than ten months ago. I find it almost impossible to think I didn’t even know Mac a year ago, but it suddenly feels like those two strangers in the theatrette are characters in a movie. Innocent versions of ourselves blessed with witty lines and brewing chemistry. There was a lightness to our intensity. Now I feel a heaviness every time we interact and I know I’m pulling Mac down with me.

  ‘Gemma, did you hear what I said?’ He sounds uncharacteristically annoyed. ‘I’m really not sure if you working a missing persons case is a great idea right now.’

  Mac is the only person who knows just how much Nicki’s case rocked me. At first I was grateful to have someone I could be completely honest with, someone who would follow me into the pit of despair and pull me out, but lately this has started to feel like something he has over me. A piece of information that has stolen my usual hiding places.

  ‘I think it’s fine,’ I say, irritated.

  Mac takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. ‘We may have to agree to disagree on that. Where exactly are you?’

  ‘Fairhaven, a tourist town about forty minutes north of Byron Bay. It over-indexes on surfing and dolphins, apparently.’

  He sniffs and moves his hand, offering me a brief glimpse of our study in Glebe. The corner of Mac’s favourite oil painting—a Paris street scene—and the rows of books on the oak bookshelf. A vase full of pens. ‘I know Fairhaven. I assisted on an inquest there years ago. A young couple went missing. In the end, the coroner ruled the man killed his girlfriend and then did a runner. It was a bit of a mess, if I remember right. Retracted witness statements and compromised evidence.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, making a mental note to look into it later. ‘You probably know the chief, then. I think the same guy’s been here forever.’

  ‘His name was Gordon,’ says Mac predictably. He has an incredible memory.

  Neither of us speak for a moment, and the high-pitched chatter from Ben’s TV show is all I can hear.

  ‘We’re going to grab a pub dinner soon,’ I say, filling the silence. ‘It’s part of the hotel.’

  Mac sighs. ‘I don’t really know what to say, Gem. I was so worried about you today, and I really wanted to be there—and now I find out you’ve gone to the middle of nowhere to run a missing person case.’

  ‘And a homicide.’

  Mac doesn’t even roll his eyes. ‘Gemma,’ he admonishes.

  This is what our relationship is: me pushing and him pulling me back. I think back to all those late nights we spent together, our heads bent close as we pored over dead end after dead end trying to find a thread, something to grab onto that would lead us to Nicki. I fell in love with him then, marvelling at his calm and wisdom. But it’s all changed now. Even Mac can’t help me navigate this post-Scott world; I need to do it on my own.

  ‘This girl isn’t Nicki, Gemma.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot, Mac.’

  He tries a different tack. ‘Do you really think dragging Ben up there with you is a good idea? Couldn’t he stay with Jodie?’

  ‘No.’

  Mac’s gaze is unrelenting. ‘Don’t use him to prove a point, Gemma. Take it from someone who knows, it doesn’t work.’

  Mac has two adult children and a frosty relationship with his ex-wife. A self-diagnosed workaholic, he believes the intensity and ambition that initially attracted her to him were ultimately what drove her away. His daughter, Molly, lives in Sydney and they’re on good terms, but his interactions with his UK-based son, Billy, are always complicated. We have more baggage than an A380, Mac is fond of saying.

  ‘I’m not trying to prove anything,’ I snap. ‘I’m just trying to think, and I can’t do it in Smithson with everyone breathing down my neck.’

  My anger flames skyward before fizzling into a smoking grey heap.

  ‘How is Ben?’ Mac says quietly, and I can almost feel his hand stroking the side of my face.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I admit. ‘He’s talking. He’s sad. He’s angry. All the standard stuff.’

  We settle into another uncharacteristic silence.

  ‘I have to jump on a briefing call shortly,’ Mac says, reluctantly.

  A wave of longing hits me hard. I think back to the last time we were together, five weeks ago, me pressing against him in Dad’s guestroom, terrified that everything happening around us was causing the precious thing we’d nurtured to die and rot. I wanted so badly to get lost in the moment, I wanted Mac too, but I couldn’t seem to block out all the noise. Lying in the dark afterwards, our heartbeats slowing to normal speed, we made the decision to cancel our holiday—what would have been my first trip overseas—agreeing there will be a more suitable time for an European adventure in the future. But if I’m honest, we haven’t just postponed the holiday; our entire relationship feels like it’s on hold.

  The first few times we were together were so intense, the intimacy almost shocking, but now I feel numb. I’m not sure what’s real anymore.

  ‘You’re working a new case?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. A cold case. An accidental fire that killed two people. One of your guys got a deathbed tip-off it was actually arson.’ He pauses. ‘I saw Owen yesterday. He said to say hi to you. He’s hating working with Jock, you know—he’s desperate to have you back.’

  I shift
sideways so I can see Ben. He’s still curled on the lounge, his chin on his bent knees as he stares at the TV.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I say. ‘Owen will be fine.’

  ‘I’m pretty desperate to have you back too, Gemma,’ Mac says. ‘Realistically, when do you think you can come home?’

  I don’t reply. The faint jerk of a water pipe vibrates through the shared wall as someone turns on the shower.

  Swallowing a sob, I angle the phone away, trying desperately not to lose control. We’d only been seeing each other for a month when Mac suggested I give notice on my tiny apartment in Forest Lodge and move my small jumble of earthly possessions into his tiny terrace in Glebe. He was as keen as I was nervous to formally merge our lives, and comfortable enough with the notion to tell me so. And despite my doubts, it had been great. We never formed the tight Venn diagram that Scott and Jodie had created with Ben; we remained separate circles enjoying a parallel orbit, our lives harmonising slowly but surely. The last few weeks have left me feeling cheated, and deep down I’m certain our interrupted happiness is some kind of karmic punishment.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, realigning the phone and clearing my throat. ‘I just don’t know. I don’t want Ben to feel like I’m trying to force my life onto him. He’s confused enough.’

  Mac clears his throat. ‘Yes, I understand that. But at some point, you will need to decide what you’re going to do. This case might buy you a week or two of thinking time but, regardless, surely staying in Smithson isn’t really an option long-term, is it?’

  Despite the sun streaming through the window, an icy chill rushes my body. I just want to sleep for a million years. My eyes fill as I look at Mac’s concerned face, which momentarily morphs into Scott’s.