Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  A handful of journos are parked on the street outside the station. Simon Charleston is there with his aviators on, leaning casually against his car bonnet. As I drive past he waves at me and makes a phone-call gesture.

  Two older model squad vehicles are in the small car park, and a motorcycle is propped in front of a shed. I take the second-last spot closest to the entrance. While getting out, I tug discreetly at the armpits of my shirt. The air is rich with birdsong as I walk up the ramp, ignoring the frenzied questions from the journalists. At the front desk sits a middle-aged man with an impressive shock of grey hair. The size of the text on his name badge has been reduced due to the length of his name: Constable Noah Kingston-Ford.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says cheerfully. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gemma Woodstock.’ I offer my hand.

  ‘Oh jeez, sorry, I didn’t realise you were you. I’m normally stationed at Evans Head but apparently I’m here until at least Easter. De Luca’s shown me the ropes, and I’ve got a whole lot here to keep me busy. I’m told a Kylie Crossin will step in for me at 5 pm.’ He jerks his thumb at a mound of paperwork. ‘But sing out if you need anything else in the meantime.’

  ‘I’m glad you can help us.’

  ‘Me too. It certainly sounds like you’ll have your hands full.’

  He answers the phone and scribbles notes on a pad that I can see is already covered with his writing, the name ‘Fletcher’ scrawled several times.

  When I look around, I can’t help comparing the tight space to the bustling reception area in Sydney’s Harbourside squad rooms. Even Smithson’s police station is at least three times bigger than this. I’m struck by the thought I might not be able to do this again, to shrink my universe after so many years in a metro squad. I feel a pang of longing for Owen and our team. I miss the sleek case rooms and my neat office. I even miss Marie, our moody boss. I miss the gritty mayhem of Sydney, the colour, the noise, the chaos. I miss my old life.

  I shake my head, trying to ward off a full-blown tumble into despair.

  Noah’s smile indicates the caller is settling in for a story, so I smile back and head into the main office. Three heads whip around as I enter.

  On top of a desk in the middle of the room, a young woman sits holding a folder. Her dark hair is cut into a feathery shag, tendrils curling around the collar of her uniform. Her eyes are a stormy grey, and the fingers that grip the folder are long and fine. Lane and another constable are seated on office chairs in front of her.

  ‘Morning,’ says Lane, standing up.

  The woman slides cat-like from the table, while the other cop jumps to his feet with a nervous smile.

  Lane squares his shoulders. ‘Guys, this is Detective Sergeant Woodstock.’ He turns to indicate the others. ‘This is Constable Edwina de Luca and Probationary Constable Damon Grange.’

  The woman eyes me coolly, angling one of her hips to the side. ‘Hello.’

  Grange bounces over to me, and I’m surprised to see that he’s my height; he must have only just scraped into the academy. He has oddly long eyelashes and an extremely round face.

  He nods his bald head up and down. ‘Really pleased to meet you, Detective. What a day yesterday was, huh?’ He rocks back on his heels, arms swinging as his nervous smile turns conspiratorial, directed at all three of us.

  The room dips into silence.

  ‘I’m really sorry I’m late,’ I say. ‘This morning has been surprisingly eventful.’

  De Luca arches a perfect eyebrow.

  ‘Everything alright?’ asks Lane.

  ‘I had to get the forensic team over to the vacant lot next to the service station. I found some blood on the ground.’

  Three pairs of eyes widen in unison.

  ‘It hasn’t rained since last week,’ says de Luca. ‘That blood could be Abbey Clark’s.’

  ‘Yes, I wondered the same. The techs are going over it now, but we might have to wait a few days for anything concrete.’ I decide not to mention the possum, at least not until I’ve spoken to Tran. ‘I want to arrange for the bushland around the servo to be searched. Can you help arrange something similar to what took place on Sunday?’

  De Luca nods and picks up a phone.

  I grab a glass of water and my laptop and a notebook, mentally ticking off all the things we need to do.

  With a shrug, de Luca hangs up. ‘All sorted. The regional firemen are going to send a dozen people there in the next twenty minutes.’

  ‘Okay, great.’ I clap my hands together. Something about de Luca’s tone feels hostile, but I tell myself I’m imagining it. ‘Let’s quickly catch up so we can get moving.’ I peer into a dark room on the right of the building. ‘We’ll go in here.’ I snap the lights on. The stuffy room contains six mismatched office chairs, a tape recorder and an ancient TV on wheels.

  ‘There’s no fan.’ De Luca glides in behind me and takes a seat at the head of the table.

  I spend the next few minutes wrestling with the window until it finally pops open. ‘Right.’ I take a seat at the opposite end of the table. Grange and Lane are sitting on either side of de Luca, their laptops open in front of them. Nerves turn my stomach. ‘Firstly, I want to say I’m looking forward to working with you all, and I appreciate that this is an unusual situation.’

  The boys’ expressions remain friendly, but de Luca gazes at the door behind me.

  ‘I also want to remind you that we’re investigating a serious homicide, possibly two, and we need to keep things tight. I’ll be asking a lot of you all, and I need you to let me know if anything I ask you to do is unclear. Okay?’

  They reply in murmurs and nods.

  ‘Good.’

  I turn to de Luca. ‘How were Rick’s parents yesterday?’ The soothing calm of procedure kicks in—I know how to do this.

  ‘Not good.’ Her full lips barely seem to move. ‘Their neighbours were there when we arrived, which ended up being a good thing, otherwise I’m not sure we could have left them. Especially the father.’

  ‘He was a mess,’ pipes up Grange. ‘Crying and barely able to talk. It was really sad.’

  ‘Did the brother turn up when you were there? Aiden?’

  ‘No.’ De Luca shakes her head. ‘We came back here to write up our notes.’

  ‘Do you suspect the Fletchers know anything about what happened to Rick?’

  ‘They just said he’d seemed so happy lately and was excited about his landscaping business,’ says Grange.

  ‘They’re doing the official ID this morning,’ says de Luca, ‘after Lamb cleans up the body. I was thinking we’d let them do that and then speak to them again tomorrow. They really weren’t in a position to be very helpful yesterday. We barely got the chance to ask them about Abbey.’

  De Luca’s voice has an appealing cadence to it, a quiet assertiveness.

  I try not to show I’m annoyed—I would have liked to have spoken to Rick’s parents yesterday. Despite their primal emotions, people are less reserved when they are fresh in grief; they reveal things more freely. In my experience, time often gives loved ones a chance to decide what information is best withheld.

  ‘Okay, that works,’ I say. ‘We definitely need to understand Rick’s relationship with Abbey and his other friends. And whether he was in financial trouble or taking drugs.’

  The three young officers stare at me.

  ‘I have several questions that I think should form the backbone of our investigation,’ I say, ‘but take me through where you’re at and then we’ll plan out the next forty-eight hours.’

  De Luca gets to her feet in one clean movement and gives the slightest of shrugs. She walks to the far side of the room and picks up a large pin board, flipping it to reveal photos of Abbey Clark, along with a map and several printouts that look to be phone records and bank statements. De Luca rests it on the table and remains standing behind it. ‘This is where we were at on Sunday night.’

  There’s something of a c
hallenge in her tone, a defiance, as if I’ve already questioned her ability, but I simply nod and look at her expectantly.

  She runs through Abbey’s known movements and ends with her rejecting Lane’s offer of a ride home. ‘Both parents admit Abbey argued with her father before she went out. Daniel claims the tension on Saturday night centred around the fact he wanted her home by midnight, which she felt was unreasonable. And he expressed his dislike of Rick Fletcher, apparently an ongoing source of animosity between them.’

  ‘But Abbey broke up with Rick last Thursday, right?’

  De Luca takes a moment to respond, as if my question is an inconvenient disruption. ‘That’s what Rick told us. A few texts between them on Friday seem to confirm this, although I wouldn’t call them definitive. Some kids from the party told us they argued about breaking up.’ De Luca arches an eyebrow at me as if to confirm whether her answer is satisfactory.

  ‘So Abbey didn’t tell her parents that they split up?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Do we know if Rick and Abbey’s relationship was volatile prior to last week? Had they broken up before?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’ She clears her throat delicately. ‘We don’t know who the guy Rick mentioned Abbey was flirting with is, but one kid from the party said she thinks he might be staying at the caravan park. We haven’t had a chance to follow that up yet.’

  ‘I reviewed her Facebook messages last night,’ I say and flip a page in my notebook. ‘A Robert Weston had been in contact with her recently and alluded to a real-life meeting they’d had. He’s from the UK but I’m not sure if he’s moved here or just travelling.’

  De Luca makes a note in her book. ‘Could it be a fake account?’

  ‘It’s locked but has several hundred friends, so I think it’s legit. This morning I called the mobile number listed and left a message asking Robert to call. Here,’ I find the number and pass it to her, ‘dig up what you can on him. And see if you can track the phone.’

  She nods.

  ‘How many kids from the party have you spoken to so far?’ I ask all three officers.

  ‘Probably about seven, but at least sixty kids were there,’ says Grange. ‘The majority were locals from the high school but there were several out-of-towners as well. We’ve formed a list that we were going to start working through.’

  ‘We need to move pretty quickly—it’s school holidays from this week, so I expect a lot of them will be heading away with their families.’

  De Luca keeps her eyes on the pin board and continues as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Abbey Clark’s phone hasn’t been used since Saturday night, and it was switched off or disabled approximately thirty minutes after she left the police station. Earlier in the night she called a friend from the party and sent a text to another friend, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. And she had no phone contact with Fletcher either before or after the party.’ De Luca pauses, then lifts her eyes to the room, regarding us in turn. ‘From her phone records, it’s clear her relationship with Fletcher was sexual and fairly volatile, especially lately. They had several arguments over text last month and they exchanged several explicit images last year, but nothing like that recently.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, already feeling impatient. I get to my feet. ‘I want to be clear that we have two key objectives. We need to find Abbey Clark. While I appreciate there’s a possibility she was involved in Fletcher’s murder, there is every chance she wasn’t, and that she is alive and out there somewhere. If that’s the case, we are running out of time, so I want to proceed with a sense of urgency. We don’t have the resources to conduct a broad search, which means we need to be focused. Our other task is to determine who killed Rick Fletcher. The timing and proximity would suggest these cases are linked, and we will certainly conduct them in tandem, but please don’t let this limit your thinking. As far as I’m concerned the field is wide open. No theory is off the table at this point.’

  I walk over to the pin board, looking at a photo of Abbey.

  ‘Lane, I’d like you to get Bruce Piper’s formal statement and follow up with Fletcher’s other neighbours. Can you also talk to the forensic team and get the key take-outs of their crime-scene report? Once they’re done with the blood this morning they will be at the Fletcher brothers’ house all day. Mick Lamb said he won’t have much for us until the autopsy on Wednesday.’

  ‘No problem,’ Lane says.

  ‘Good. Grange, please pull as much security footage as you can find from Saturday night and Monday morning. I know it’s limited but I want council footage, private cameras, dash cams—whatever you can get. I’ve already spoken to Cam O’Donnell at The Parrot, and he’s sending through his records asap. The clue to the entire case could be sitting on a tape somewhere and I don’t enjoy that kind of irony. And can you speak to the caravan park and get a full guest list from them? I want to know everyone who was there on Saturday plus anyone who has checked out since. Same goes for other hotels and Airbnb rentals in the area.’

  Grange’s tongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he takes notes. ‘Yep, yep,’ he mutters.

  I turn to de Luca. Her pretty face remains impassive. ‘I want you to come to the Clarks’ with me, then help me map out a clear timeline of Abbey’s movements on Saturday night.’

  ‘I was going to continue interviewing the kids from the party,’ she says curtly.

  ‘This is more important.’

  She purses her lips. ‘Fine.’

  Heat rises up my neck. I don’t know what her problem is but I have zero time for it.

  I grab a piece of blank paper from the far end of the table and start jotting down points as I say them aloud. ‘I want you to keep the following in mind. Firstly, we need to locate the man who was hassling Abbey at the party. Maybe it was Robert Weston, maybe someone staying at the caravan park. Either way we need to track Robert down. Let’s get the caravan park manager to help us out. Secondly, I want to know what Abbey was spending her money on. She was earning at least four hundred dollars a fortnight and withdrawing it almost immediately. Thirdly, I want to know more about her mental health. Was there any indication she was suicidal? Who was she close to? Did she confide in anybody? We need to know if anyone noticed anything else about her that night, such as who she was speaking to and any details about her behaviour. I also want to locate that bike. If it was stolen then who took it? The family doesn’t have much money, so I’m thinking it wasn’t worth a lot—does that mean it was taken for some other reason? And what made her feel compelled to report it in the middle of the night?’ I turn to Lane. ‘I assume there is footage of her coming to the station on Saturday? I’d like to see it.’ I put the lid of the pen back on, then stretch out my back. As I straighten up, I say, ‘I’m still struggling to understand why she didn’t let you drive her home.’

  Lane nods, moistening his full lips. ‘I just should have insisted,’ he says quietly. ‘I should have said it was non-negotiable.’

  He looks forlorn, and I feel a flicker of sympathy. The game of ‘what if ’ is a dangerous one in our world. So many wrong turns are served up to us, inevitably we end up down a dead end at some point. The sooner we reverse out of there, the better. Guilt is a surefire ticket to nowhere.

  ‘I suspect a lot was going on in her head that we are not aware of.’

  ‘I’ll send you the station footage,’ he says, turning back to his computer.

  I pin my list of questions to the board and grab another bit of paper. ‘We need to speak with her employers and co-workers at the supermarket. Same with Rick—did he work with anyone? And what about the other adults in their lives? Teachers? Relatives?’

  ‘Abbey’s teachers wouldn’t know what went on at the party,’ says Grange doubtfully.

  ‘She might have confided in someone about things that were happening in her life. It’s not uncommon for victims of domestic abuse to turn to an adult outside the home.’

  The back of my neck burns hot again. So
mewhere in the room a fly buzzes sporadically, like a lawnmower that won’t start.

  ‘I just need you all to keep an eye out for anything that doesn’t add up. We can’t afford to waste time.’ I stifle a sigh, knowing my role as cheerleader is critical at this point. ‘We can do this. Stay in touch during the day, and report back to me no later than five. Any questions?’ I look around the small room.

  Lane clears his throat. ‘I was just wondering about our shifts. I know Tran organised the extra resources but how will that work? Will we still do any night shifts? I’m happy to if you need extra cover.’

  ‘No, I want the four of us to work as a team during the day. The station will run twenty-four seven until further notice, but the others can take care of the night shifts and we’ll also have one extra resource between 7.30 am and 4 pm to look after the everyday jobs and do some patrol shifts. I don’t know how the weekend will work yet, but I advise you warn your loved ones now that you might need to postpone your Easter celebrations this year.’

  When Lane nods, my mind jumps back to seeing him at the pub, watching his hand down the back of that woman’s skirt.

  ‘Okay, same time, same place tomorrow morning unless you hear from me.’

  Lane and Grange get to their feet and gather their things.

  ‘Okay if we leave in ten?’ I ask de Luca.

  ‘Sure.’ She hugs the folder to her chest, then says, ‘Lane? Can I just quickly chat to you?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says agreeably and falls into step beside her.

  I use the bathroom and apply some sunscreen to my face. The sickly sweet smell makes me feel sick.

  ‘Bye,’ says Grange, scurrying off self-importantly.

  ‘Bye,’ I reply.

  The door to the other meeting room is still closed, and I can hear the faint murmur of Lane and de Luca’s conversation. I look back at the head shots of Rick and Abbey. Young, beautiful people who likely had no idea their photos would end up on the wall of a police station.