by Sarah Bailey
‘I’m okay.’ I tug my denim jacket sleeves to my wrists and curl my legs onto the chair.
After sinking into the seat opposite, she savours a sip of wine. ‘Gosh, I’m so tired!’ She yawns and covers her mouth, then laughs. ‘Sorry.’
Her warmth gives an impression of openness, but I’m starting to detect a guardedness. I wonder if Simon is right. Maybe she’s holding something back—hiding something.
I say, ‘I hope you’ve been finding Ben okay? Looking after a boy that age can be a bit of a shock to the system.’
‘They are little balls of energy, aren’t they?’ She laughs again. ‘It’s a good shock,’ she insists. ‘I know it’s not an easy time for either of you, but I love having him here. I’m enjoying having you both here. It’s a nice change from just the two of us.’
‘Ben seems to be liking it here.’ I pause. ‘But maybe I’m just telling myself that.’
‘Gemma . . .’ Vanessa begins before biting her lip.
I tilt my head questioningly.
‘Ben asked if he could call Jodie today. His stepmother?’ Vanessa looks at me with concern. ‘He knew the number off by heart and I said it was fine. I assume you’re okay he called her?’
My heart thunders in my chest. ‘Yes, of course it’s fine. He’s lived with her for the past two years.’ I drink water too quickly and it goes down the wrong way. ‘She’s really nice,’ I croak.
‘They didn’t speak for long but I got the feeling he didn’t want me to tell you. I just don’t think it’s right to keep things from you.’
I glance inside. Ben is pointing at the screen and saying something to Charlie.
‘I don’t not want him talking to Jodie,’ I say slowly. ‘I should probably be talking more to her myself.’
‘Unfortunately, there are no hard and fast rules when it comes to the things that really matter.’
I think about the pregnancy test buried at the bottom of my suitcase. ‘That’s true.’ Rearranging my legs, I fix my gaze on her. ‘Tommy’s accident must have been pretty scary. Someone mentioned you drove him to the hospital?’
She has another sip of wine. ‘Yes, it was terrifying. When he called, he made out like it wasn’t that serious, but then when I got there I totally freaked out. There was so much blood.’
‘But you didn’t call an ambulance?’
‘Oh well, I wanted to—but you know what Tommy’s like. He insisted he was okay, and of course the wait time for an ambulance around here isn’t like it is in the city. People are encouraged to be resourceful.’ She says this primly, as if she feels I’m judging her.
‘But in the end you took him to the Fairhaven hospital and not Byron?’
She gives a strange little laugh. ‘Well, like I said, Tommy didn’t even think he needed to go to hospital! There was no way he would have let me drive him to Byron. He said it looked much worse than it was, and he was worried about pulling people away from the search for Abbey. So we came back here. I cleaned him up as well as I could. Eventually I insisted he needed to be checked out—I didn’t want him sleeping that night without medical advice.’
‘Right.’
She uncrosses her legs and fusses with her shirt. ‘Anyway, I’m just glad he’s alright.’
‘Yes, sounds like it could have been much worse. It was a kangaroo that caused him to swerve?’
With a laugh, she taps her hands on her thighs. ‘Yes, of all things. Tommy bloody hates them.’
We sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the insects.
‘Have you always lived in Fairhaven?’ I ask her.
‘Tommy has. I was born in Brisbane and lived there until I was twenty. We met when Tommy was up there doing some training, and that was it.’
‘He swept you off your feet?’
She laughs again, the colour returning to her face. ‘I guess he did. I was living here within a year.’
Aware I’ve slipped into interview mode, I try to soften my tone a little. ‘Did you ever think about living anywhere else?’
‘Not really. Tommy always wanted to run the local station. He doesn’t like all the fuss in the bigger offices. Then about nine years ago the previous chief inspector left unexpectedly, and Tommy was given the chance to step up. We won’t leave now. If you haven’t noticed already, Tommy is pretty set in his ways.’
‘Was that the missing teenagers case? I read up about it online.’
‘Yes.’ She sighs. ‘Greg and Sally. I taught Sally for two years, she was divine. Her parents still live here, rattling around the town like ghosts. I don’t think they feel like they can leave—you know, in case she comes back. They used to come over here all the time talking to Tommy, it was awful for him.’
‘Not knowing is always worse,’ I say. ‘It destroys people. That’s what I don’t want for Abbey.’
‘No,’ Vanessa murmurs.
‘I read the inquest ruling. That Greg most likely killed Sally and fled town.’
‘Tommy never believed that,’ says Vanessa. ‘He argued with the chief inspector about it a lot. They couldn’t see eye to eye on the case at all.’
‘Tommy thought something happened to both of them?’
Vanessa gives an uncertain nod. ‘No trace of them was ever found and Greg’s car was gone, which is why so many people said they skipped town together. A few sightings were reported months later in places like Broome and even Adelaide, but Tommy thought they were bogus. None of their stuff was missing, and Sally was supposed to be a bridesmaid in her sister’s wedding the following week. Her family were always adamant she would never have missed that voluntarily.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Surely something happened to both of them. There were rumours of a serial killer hiding out in the bush.’ Vanessa looks up at the tiny wedge of moon. ‘That seemed more plausible, somehow, than Sally missing her sister’s big day.’
‘Did Tommy have a suspect in mind?’
‘The case almost tore the squad apart. They copped a lot of heat in the press. Tommy fell out with the former chief, and by the time he was in charge the case was cold. The whole thing hit him really hard—he suffered a fair bit of self-doubt. He had some health issues at the time and there was a lot of pressure. Those first few years running the station were very tough on him.’ Something in her voice makes it clear those years were tough on her as well.
‘Why did the other chief leave?’
‘He never said, but I think he just got sick of Fairhaven. Plus he came from a wealthy family who ran property development projects. Last I heard he went to work with them interstate.’ Vanessa swirls the dregs of her wine around in her glass. ‘Do you think Abbey is dead?’
‘I’m not sure. I think there’s a strong chance she was killed on Saturday night.’
Vanessa nods, her mouth set in a grim line. ‘I know it’s silly to say, but it’s like the poor girl was cursed from the beginning.’
‘Did you ever teach Abbey?’
‘No, but she served me in the supermarket every Saturday. She seemed like a nice girl, lovely manners. And she was so pretty with that beautiful skin and long dark hair.’ Vanessa curls her lip. ‘Probably the only good thing she got from her father.’ With her fingertips, Vanessa pushes her empty wineglass across the wooden slats of the tabletop. ‘Tommy would always tell me if they’d had a call-out to the Clarks’, and I would always check on her at the supermarket the following week. You know, trying to let her know there were people around here looking out for her.’ Vanessa pulls her cardigan tighter around her body. ‘A lot of people write Daniel off as stupid,’ she says. ‘But really he’s just dangerous. He’s rude in public, sure, and angry, but it’s funny how he’s only violent when no one else is there to see it. He’s no fool. I know Tommy would like nothing more than to see him put away, and hopefully this situation with Rick leads to that.’
Vanessa looks so vulnerable. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if there’s more to Tommy’s accident than
she has let on, but the moment passes. The whine of a mosquito triggers itchiness, and I can’t relax. Through the window I see the kids’ movie credits rolling.
‘Do we need to get Charlie home?’ I ask Vanessa. I get to my feet, suddenly desperate to be behind the glass with the curtains drawn.
Vanessa leans forward, peering at the two boys sprawled on the couch. ‘I told Charlie’s mum he could stay. They get along really well, don’t they? I thought they might. Charlie has a much older sister but she’s moved to Sydney for uni so he’s pretty much an only child.’
‘You’re really great with kids,’ I say tentatively, wondering if she once wanted to have children of her own.
She looks pleased. ‘That’s what almost thirty years of teaching does to you.’
I smile. ‘Maybe more people should be teachers before they become parents.’
‘You’ll figure it out, Gemma. Or you’ll muddle through. People raise kids in a thousand different ways, and I tend to find that most of them are doing their best. You and your ex have done a good job with Ben so far. He’s an amazing kid.’
‘I know,’ I reply, squaring my shoulders. I look past my reflection in the window to see Ben laughing sleepily at something Charlie said. ‘That’s sort of what I’m afraid of. It’s just me now and I don’t want to be the one who stuffs him up.’
I finally call Jonesy back after I put Ben to bed.
‘You can’t go off the grid like that, Gemma,’ he says gruffly. ‘I worry.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘You’re not fine, you’re working a bloody homicide investigation and a missing persons case.’
‘You know that’s generally when I achieve peak happiness,’ I quip.
Jonesy clears his throat, signalling something sensitive. ‘Gemma, Tommy told me about the possum. I suppose you weren’t planning on letting me know about that?’
‘I wasn’t, actually,’ I say stiffly. ‘I was sort of hoping we could avoid a conversation like this.’
He grumbles under his breath. ‘I should have talked you out of going.’
‘We both know that would never have worked. Plus, I think Ben likes it here.’
‘I’m glad the little fella is doing okay, but I’m worried about you as well.’
‘How well do you know Tommy?’
‘Not that well. We did a course together, hit it off and stayed in touch afterwards. Lucy and I went to Fairhaven for a holiday since then, but that was years ago. I haven’t seen him—oh, well, it must be at least five years. How are you finding him? I hope the old bugger’s not being too territorial?’
‘He’s a bit hard to read,’ I say, evading the question.
‘I imagine he’d be pretty tough. He’s pretty old school. I know he had some health problems a while back. He’s lucky to have Vanessa, she’s a saint.’
‘Yeah, she’s been great with Ben.’
‘We should both get some shut-eye,’ says Jonesy with a yawn. ‘Just remember you’ve had a tough time lately, Gemma, and even though you at half speed is still most people at turbo, there’s nothing wrong with admitting you have a limit. So if you reach yours, you need to promise you’ll let me know.’
I look at the crumpled chemist bag on my nightstand, the two blue lines glowing behind the plastic window.
‘I promise.’
FIFTH DAY MISSING
Thursday, 14 April
6.16 am
I wake with a sense of anticipation, picturing the forensic team hard at work under their portable lamps as they trawl over the rotting human remains in the bush.
I reach past Ben to pick up my phone.
The text from Tran reads: It’s not her. It’s a kid from Evans Head who was reported missing two weeks ago. Dale Marx. We’re working through possible links but there’s nothing so far.
I drop the phone to my chest and stare at the ceiling, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. It’s not Abbey. We still have nothing but at least there’s a chance she might be out there somewhere.
I have breakfast with Ben and Vanessa. Tommy is up early too but declined breakfast and simply sits at the end of the table, staring with glassy eyes at his iPad.
As I drive to the station, parts of my conversation with Vanessa keep bubbling up. Clearly there were issues in the way the cold missing person case was handled, and Tommy is hard to read, but I’m not convinced anything warrants the conspiracy theory categorisation that Simon has given it.
I say good morning to Tim and Kylie, the junior stand-in constables who are in the middle of their shift handover.
De Luca arrives fresh faced and with an impressive dossier on Robert Weston. Aged nineteen, he’s on a gap year from uni where he is enrolled to study law. He has no priors, though she tracked down a detective in the UK who informed her of something interesting: Robert is due in court in November to give evidence against a man who attacked him outside a pub and broke his arm. The detective de Luca spoke to seems to think the attack came about because Robert had been harassing the assailant’s girlfriend. The girlfriend is apparently giving evidence and will be documenting the unwelcome messages she received from Robert.
‘The UK cops reckon Weston is a real pest. A borderline stalker.’ De Luca hands me several printouts: a copy of his passport, a few grabs from social media, and photos of the three men he was travelling with.
‘Good work,’ I say.
‘You were the one who ID’d him,’ she says dismissively.
We lock eyes, and again I try to understand the battle I seem to have unwittingly stepped into.
‘We’re a team,’ I say, and sense the slightest roll of her eyes.
I take the three young cops through the schedule I’ve mapped out for the day: Grange is going to the hospital to speak to Doctor Eric Sheffield and try to find out whether Abbey made or attended a doctor appointment recently, while Lane and de Luca are interviewing more kids from the party. I’m heading to the caravan park to catch Dot before I meet with William, James and Miles at 9 am.
I call out goodbye as the others file from the meeting room, then I log into the system and look up the authors of the Gregory Ng/Sally Luther case file.
As per Vanessa’s run-down, Stuart Klein was the chief inspector who led the case. I google him and find a piece written by Simon detailing his retirement from the force. The article says he was planning a move for family reasons and looking forward to a new career in Sydney.
Janet Rixon, the only constable in Fairhaven back then, reported to Tommy, who was the senior sergeant. According to a Google search, Janet currently runs a small scuba-diving operation with her husband in Evans Head. Their website includes her short bio and a photo. She looks around forty, with a friendly moon face and a short blonde bob. I scroll through the website gobsmacked at the cost of the diving packages.
Knowing it’s probably too early, I call Janet’s office number. A cheery recorded voice explains that the daily dive sessions start at 6 am and the best time to make a phone inquiry is between 4 pm and 7 pm.
‘Dammit,’ I say to the empty room.
I catch a ghost version of my reflection on the whiteboard and give myself an exasperated look. What was I expecting, anyway? That Janet would feed me a clue from a nine-year-old cold case that somehow helps me find Abbey? I can feel myself fixating on the past, distracted by the stale clues. It’s a tendency I’ve always had because it’s often easier to tackle than what is right in front of me. After plugging Janet’s number into my phone I grab my things, conscious of my sluggish limbs.
After getting into the car I quickly fire off another text to Mac, blaming my lack of contact on my workload and a mild virus. I turn off my personal phone, putting it in the glove box.
My body is tense during the short drive. Ben was quiet this morning, more withdrawn than he had been all week, and I fought tears as I kissed him goodbye. I have another sip of water and try to be grateful that at least I don’t feel like hurling my guts up today.
I make my way down the path, noting the neat garden beds and the communal laundry and bathrooms. On the other side of the bathrooms is a row of permanent caravans with elaborate annexes, and beyond them is a huge stretch of grass dotted with tents and campervans, sporadic power poles indicating where new guests should drop anchor.
A mother and a boy around Ben’s age come out of the bathrooms. His hair is so fair it’s almost white and his face is mottled with sunburn, prompting me to think I must double-check with Vanessa that Ben is reapplying sunscreen during the day. The mother and I exchange polite smiles before I fall into step behind them, watching the boy’s narrow shoulderblades press out against his skin as his mum lectures him about wearing his rashie.
I veer off toward the west-wing cabins. I encounter six closed doors and one that’s ajar, though it’s quickly apparent that no cleaning is going on inside but rather a heated argument between a couple about money suddenly not being in a bank account.
The door to the next cabin is propped open by a cleaning cart, but the woman bustling around inside is not Dot. She’s a cheerful redhead who tells me her name is Joy and informs me that Dot should be in the laundry room. ‘It’s terrible about her daughter,’ says Joy, whipping a fitted sheet into submission. ‘And that boy too. It reminds me of when that young couple disappeared—it was the same terrible feeling around town. Like evil had come to visit. Is there any word on where the poor girl is?’
