Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘He reckoned five hundred bucks,’ says Owen.

  ‘Per delivery?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, he did it?’

  ‘Yeah, he says he replied that he was interested, then a burner phone turned up three days later. The day he was leaving he got a text about the pick-up address, and sure enough there were fifteen boxes and an envelope full of cash on the front porch.’

  ‘What was the address?’

  ‘Just residential. We think the house was unoccupied at the time—the guy says it had a rental sign out the front.’

  ‘Right. So, what kind of deliveries does he make?’

  ‘Canteen supplies to schools and hospitals.’

  I breathe out. ‘Where?’

  ‘The western suburbs.’

  ‘But you can’t trace the origins?’

  ‘No, it all leads nowhere. It’s smart. They keep it low-key and rely on the delivery guys thinking it’s an easy way to supplement their income.’

  ‘I think the hospital here is being used in the same way. I’ve been trying to get my hands on the finances, but we haven’t had much luck.’

  ‘We’re looking into a hospital here too. I’ll let you know what shakes out.’

  ‘See if he knows the doctor up here, Eric Sheffield.’

  ‘Will do.’ Owen clears his throat. ‘How is everything else?’ he asks softly, and I know he’s been talking to Mac.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Owen.’

  The station phone rings and Noah sticks his head into the office, eyeballing me.

  ‘I’ve gotta go, Owen, call me later.’ I hang up. ‘Dot?’ I ask Noah, getting to my feet.

  He nods.

  ‘Put it through to the meeting room.’ I turn to de Luca. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Me?’ she says, surprised.

  ‘Yep.’

  When the phone rings, I put it on speaker. Dot’s voice stumbles into the room. ‘Detective Woodstock?’

  ‘Yes, Dot, I’m listening.’

  ‘What you said the other day . . . well, I’ve been thinking about it. I, um, I want to do the right thing.’

  De Luca’s eyes are fixed on the phone, and she leans forward.

  ‘Okay, well, I’m really glad you called, Dot.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s about Daniel. He did go out the other morning.’

  ‘Which morning?’

  ‘Monday,’ she wheezes.

  ‘What time?’ I say, as De Luca leans even closer to the speaker, her eyes intense. She seems to be holding her breath and I remember the marks on her arms. This is personal for her somehow.

  ‘Before sunrise.’

  ‘Do you know the exact time?’

  Dot falters. ‘I’m not sure. I think maybe five-thirty, or a little bit later? I was half asleep.’

  I can feel de Luca’s eyes on me but I keep mine on the speaker. ‘Did your husband leave the house by car?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dot whispers. ‘I heard the car start outside, which I thought was strange because he never goes out in the morning since he lost his job. But then I figured maybe he wanted some smokes because he ran out the night before. He wasn’t gone long, I think I fell asleep again, but I heard him come back. That was at about six-thirty.’

  All my muscles are straining; the tendons on my hands have turned to ropes.

  ‘Did he come back to bed? Or speak to you?’

  ‘No, no. That was the thing.’ She pauses.

  ‘Dot?’

  ‘He turned the shower on.’

  ‘He had a shower?’

  ‘Yes.’ She says it so quietly that de Luca and I lean forward even further.

  ‘He was in there for ages.’ Dot’s voice trembles. ‘And the thing is, he never has a shower in the morning.’

  Saturday, 16 April

  7.22 pm

  Ben is off his food at dinner, pushing meat and vegetables listlessly around his plate. Tommy is withdrawn, his skin a soft grey. My nausea is back with a vengeance and though I don’t think I’ll actually be sick, my stomach churns ominously.

  Vanessa talks for all of us, a desperate edge to her voice. ‘There’s a bad storm coming,’ she says to no one in particular. ‘Inka will need to sleep inside tonight.’

  Tommy grunts. He presses two tablets from a silver sheet and downs them with a glass of water. ‘You’re too soft on that animal.’

  I smile at Ben but he doesn’t notice.

  Dot’s phone call and Lane’s betrayal circle in my head. Dot refused to come in to the station to make a formal statement because Daniel was at the house, but she agreed to meet me there tomorrow after her shift at the caravan park. Something seemed different about her this afternoon—maybe despair over her missing daughter has forced her to find the courage she didn’t know she had.

  ‘Daniel blamed that poor boy for Abbey going missing,’ she told us flatly. ‘He gets so angry sometimes, it’s like he loses his mind. I’m sure he did something to him.’

  I explained that her statement would be enough for us to bring Daniel in, though there were no guarantees we’d be able to make an arrest.

  ‘I want to make a statement about the other things too,’ she said then. ‘About what he’s done to Abbey these past few years.’

  ‘And to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, starting to cry.

  There is still no sign of Lane, or his car. I rake over our interactions, replay conversations and analyse his demeanour, wondering how I could have missed his deception. I think of what de Luca said about Lane attending the most recent DV to the Clark house. It’s easy to imagine a vulnerable teenage girl watching a handsome young constable stand up to her violent father and mistake his duty for affection. Had playing the hero tempted Lane to take things further? As I try to force down some salad, I wonder how far he was willing to go to protect himself. Is that what happened? Did Abbey threaten to expose him?

  Oh god, what have you done? I think, an unexpected wave of grief washing over me.

  I haven’t always made the best judgement calls in the past. I’ve acted against orders, I’ve failed to disclose things I should have, and there’s no doubt my personal involvement and emotions have, at times, led me astray. But I’ve survived: through a bit of luck, supportive managers, and the fact I only strayed very slightly from the hard line of the law. But this is different. No matter what happened that Saturday night, I can’t see a way out of this for Lane. A moment of rage, an accident, a cover-up—it doesn’t matter.

  At the very least he’s lied on record and botched a major criminal investigation. At worst, he’s a rapist and a killer. His career is over and it will just come down to a sliding scale of gaol time.

  Tommy is gulping down his beer, his gaze glassy. I’m not sure what he knows about Lane, as it hasn’t hit the news, but there have been a few alerts this afternoon. I’m not sure if he’s been checking his work messages.

  There’s a clatter: Vanessa is clearing the dishes, and I jump up to help.

  ‘Dessert?’ she says with false cheer. We all murmur ‘no, thanks’ and panic ruffles her features. ‘Not even you, Ben?’ she asks in mock horror.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he repeats. He puts his plate on the bench and glides over to the couch where he starts to play with a Lego set.

  Once everything is in the dishwasher, I join Tommy back at the table and quietly tell him about Dot’s call this afternoon.

  ‘Well,’ he says, blinking, ‘I have to admit, I didn’t think she had it in her. Do you reckon she’ll go through with the statement?’

  ‘I hope so but I’m not banking on it. She’s very scared.’

  He nods slowly. ‘Surely you have to admit this means it’s possible Daniel was involved in Abbey’s disappearance too? I hope you grilled her about Saturday night. Maybe she’ll magically remember something else.’ Before I can speak, he holds his paw-like hands up in the air. ‘Yes, yes, I know about Lane. I saw the alerts. But just because he’s MIA doesn’t mean he has anything to do with Ric
k’s death.’

  ‘Tommy,’ I say, leaning closer and tilting my head until he looks me in the eye, ‘Daniel might have attacked Rick, I’m not sure yet, but I think there’s a strong likelihood Lane was involved in whatever happened to Abbey. He lied about her bike being stolen and god knows what else. As soon as he knew I was going to find the bike he took off. It’s pretty bloody obvious he’s involved, Tommy.’

  Tommy’s mouth pinches. He picks up a salt shaker and tips it as far as it can go before the granules fall out. ‘I can’t see it. Not Lane. Something else must be going on with him.’

  I feel hot all over. ‘We can’t account for his movements from when you last saw him and when he met you at the station at ten on Sunday morning.’

  ‘I thought you always keep an open mind,’ Tommy says stiffly.

  ‘I am.’ I try to keep the heat out of my voice. ‘But we’ve got deception, motive and opportunity. That would be bad enough, but then he disappeared. So you tell me what I’m keeping an open mind about.’

  Tommy stares moodily at his dirty plate. ‘I’m not saying he didn’t do the wrong thing—I don’t know what the hell is going on with that bike. But I’m not willing to write him off just yet. He’s a good kid.’

  I stand up, on fire now, picturing the possum trap in Lane’s spare room. ‘There was nothing good about the way he lied to everyone,’ I hiss. ‘But maybe that’s the kind of behaviour you reward.’

  We’re locked in a silent stand-off, his dislike for me so palpable I feel it push me backwards.

  Ben suddenly rises from the couch and slinks down the hallway. I call out to him, but he keeps walking.

  ‘Sort your kid out, go on.’ Tommy waves his hand and says sarcastically, ‘Priorities.’

  Fuming, I stomp down the hallway until my toes touch the line of light that runs under Ben’s bedroom door. Holding my breath, I hear a burst of muffled crying. I twist the handle open and launch myself at the bed, gathering him up in a clumsy hug. ‘Baby, baby, what is it? It’s okay, Ben. I’m here.’

  He doesn’t fight me off but doesn’t hug me back either. He keeps his grip on the pillow strong, his face buried in the cover as more sobs come. I let him cry, his tears neutralising my own sadness and turning me numb. I feel shamefully neglectful and utterly foolish. Of course Ben isn’t okay. He’s stronger than I ever was, but he is not okay. I trace my fingers across his face, smudging the tears. My son is broken and I don’t know how to put him back together.

  I wriggle forward so he’s spooned up against my chest. Our heartbeats fall into sync, his staccato sobs forming the melody to my steady bass. After a few moments he stops shaking quite as intensely, and I have to forcibly release my grip on him. My eyes seem to have forgotten how to blink.

  I start to ask him what’s wrong, then mentally kick myself. I know what’s wrong: he lost the person he was closest to in the world, and his part-time, emotionally challenged mother took him to a strange place where he knows no one.

  I’m sorry, I mouth into his hair as my eyes fill.

  ‘Are you thinking about Dad?’ I say quietly.

  ‘Is your job really dangerous?’ he replies.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Charlie said that police officers die all the time. He showed me a news story about one who died yesterday in Sydney.’

  ‘Oh, Ben,’ I say. I’d seen the news and got the alerts—a domestic violence call-out had proven more serious than initially thought. A female officer had been restraining the perpetrator when he threw her against a brick wall. She died in hospital from head injuries a few hours later. ‘That was a terrible incident, but that kind of thing is really rare.’

  ‘But it could happen to you,’ he presses. ‘You could die.’

  ‘I won’t.’ I swallow around my swollen throat.

  He gives me a withering look, an adult look. ‘You can’t promise me that. If you do it will be a lie.’

  I sigh. ‘Hey.’ I sit up and pull him with me. ‘You’re right, I can’t promise you, but I’m very careful. And you are so important to me, I can promise you I will fight like crazy to always be here for you.’

  I find his hand and squeeze it. He clenches his jaw into the start of a smile, but we both know all too well that my best intentions will never be enough if the universe has other plans. I wonder if this is my destiny: telling Ben things I hope like hell will prove to be true.

  I gently lift his chin. ‘Do you want to go home now? Back to Smithson?’

  He shrugs. ‘Sort of. I want to see Annabel.’

  ‘Of course you do, baby,’ I say.

  ‘And Grandad and Rebecca.’

  ‘And Jodie,’ I add.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says quickly. ‘But I still feel funny about going to school. When I think about it I feel sick.’

  ‘Your dad loves you so much, Ben. He always will.’

  He looks at me, confused. ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m not good with this stuff,’ I say, stumbling over the words. ‘But I want to talk about him more. We should both talk about him more, don’t you think?’

  Ben nods, then his face twists in grief.

  ‘Ben, Ben, hey . . .’

  Just hold him, Gemma, I hear Scott say. Just hold him.

  And so I do. I shut up and hold on.

  Saturday, 16 April

  11.02 pm

  I turn over my pillow for the third time, trying to get comfortable. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. In a desperate attempt to find sleep I run through the names of people in my Sydney squad, but I’m still half-awake when my phone rings, lighting up the watercolour on the wall and turning it an eerie blue. I lean out of bed and place my hands on the floor, walking them over to where my phone is attached to the charger.

  It’s a number I don’t recognise. With my legs still in the bed, I answer as formally as I can manage.

  ‘Oh yes, hello.’ A female voice with a strong accent. ‘Is that the detective I met today?’

  I side onto the floor and scramble into a sitting position. ‘Yes, this is Detective Woodstock.’

  ‘This is Elsha. Kai’s girlfriend.’

  I push my hair out of my eyes and try to concentrate. ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘He called me.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘He’s very upset. I’m so worried about him.’

  ‘You’ve done the right thing in letting me know. Did he call you on his usual phone?’

  ‘Ah, no, it was a blocked number.’

  ‘And did he just call you?’

  ‘Yes, he hung up and I called you right away like you said.’ When she starts to cry, it crosses my mind that this might be a ploy.

  ‘Okay, Elsha, you’re doing great. What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted me to meet with him. He said we needed to talk because a whole lot of stuff has been blown out of proportion.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said he was scaring me. And then he started yelling about whether I’d spoken to the police! He said whatever you were saying, it wasn’t true, and that I had to trust him.’

  ‘Okay, Elsha, this is important—did he say anything about where he was going?’

  She sniffs loudly and her voice is muffled for a moment. ‘No, he just said I shouldn’t believe what anyone’s saying, and he’s going to prove to me that he didn’t do it.’ Her voice breaks open. ‘But he sounded crazy, and I think that you’re right. I’m so sorry. Tell me, what has he done? Did he . . . Is it to do with that missing girl? Oh my god!’ she wails.

  ‘Elsha, listen.’ I start to pull my jeans on. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘Yes. I’m with my friend at her parents’ house.’

  ‘Okay, good. Text me the address of where you’re staying. If you hear from Kai again, call me straight away. Can you do that?’

  ‘Please don’t hurt him,’ she whispers.

  I hang up, throw some chewing gum into my mouth, and scribble a note for Tommy and Vanessa that I leave on the kitchen bench. I slip out the front door, already
dialling de Luca.

  ‘Is it Lane?’ she answers, sounding wide awake.

  ‘Yeah, I just spoke to Elsha.’ I’m battling through the wind to get to the car. ‘Lane just called her. She said he wanted to meet with her. If they’re both telling the truth, he must be close by.’

  ‘Do you think she is? Telling the truth, I mean?’

  ‘She sounded terrified, but who knows? It’s all we’ve got right now. I’ll send Grange to her friend’s place just in case Lane goes there.’

  ‘Right. Do you want to pick me up from the pub? It’ll be quicker if I drive there and meet you.’

  ‘Yep, I’m coming now. We’ll work out a plan then, and I should let Tran know what’s going on. Can you see if the guys can trace Elsha’s call? I doubt they can but it’s worth a shot.’

  It starts to spit with rain and I flick on the windscreen wipers, smudging a fine layer of dust into the glass. Before I start the car Elsha’s text comes through with the address, so I forward it to Grange and ask him to get there as soon as he can. My nerves are going haywire, the full weight of Lane’s betrayal bearing down on me with renewed force.

  I pull out onto the road and flick on the headlights—just in time to swerve and narrowly miss running over Meg Jarvis.

  Meg mutters under her breath and clicks her tongue, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. This seems to be the equivalent of a kid sticking his fingers in his ears and singing to block out requests to tidy his room. Large droplets of rain begin to fall on us as we stand in the glow of my car headlights. I feel even more wired than before, the wind churning around us.

  ‘Meg, will you let me drive you home?’

  She opens her eyes and makes a low angry noise. ‘I saw them with her, you know. She was already gone.’

  ‘Who, Meg?’ Rain runs down my face. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake it out of her, but of course that would only make things worse. ‘Please tell me.’

  ‘They paid for my sins,’ Meg says sadly. ‘My sister was sick, I had no choice.’ She shakes her head.

  I wipe my wet face on my jumper sleeve. My phone is lighting up the centre console.

  ‘Gemma, we just got an emergency call.’ De Luca’s voice is an octave higher than normal. ‘It was from the Clark house—one of the kids called triple zero. Lane’s there and apparently he’s going crazy.’