Sam stared at the A3-sized aerial photograph in her lap. Streets, houses and bushy backyards covered less of the hillside than the National Park. And apart from the relatively clear patch around the old Doongalla homestead site, the park was a mass of gumtree and tree-fern canopies.
She homed in on the Doongalla picnic area: the last known place Hannah was seen and the boys had probably been. Had they left under their own steam or with help?
On foot or in a vehicle, the easiest way out of the bush was straight down the driveway from Doongalla and onto the Basin–Olinda Road. If they turned left, they’d have headed uphill to Olinda. Right would have descended in the direction of The Basin.
She said, ‘How busy’s the Basin–Olinda Road?’
Bernie swivelled around in the driver’s seat. ‘Depends on the time and day, but not very, usually.’
‘If they were inside a vehicle, what’re the chances someone saw them?’
The Olinda cop shrugged in answer.
‘And if they were on foot?’
‘Still pretty poor, to tell you the truth. People around here like their privacy and the properties are spaced apart. We don’t have many oldies monitoring the streets from behind their twitching curtains.’
Lunny frowned. ‘And with the severe weather conditions over the critical time period, the odds worsen.’
Bernie agreed adding, ‘They wouldn’t have had much left in the tank.’
Sam nodded. The kids would’ve been cold, weary and hungry. ‘So, we should concentrate on the people on your list, Sarge, whose addresses are relatively close to the Doongalla access road.’
‘G’us a look.’ Bernie took Lunny’s list and ran his finger down the names and addresses that the police canvass hadn’t yet eliminated. He tapped one, then turned over the truck’s ignition. ‘That’s where we’ll start.’
Georgie had figured four was a crowd and wanted to resume probing for potential links between Zena Betka and Hanny and the boys. So Bernie had dropped her at one of the local cafés, the WiFi its drawcard.
Seated in a low chair in the front window nook, her computer whirring on her lap, all set to continue her searches, her mind wandered. She watched the street through the window. A car waited for another to pull out from a space in front of the Milk Bar. After that, a van shot past and double-parked near the Post Office with its hazard lights flashing.
Around her, the café buzzed. Mums and kids packed vintage laminate tables, a couple of people typed on laptops, a group of four old men were in deep discussion and a woman flitted between tables engaging with the customers, while another woman operated the fancy coffee machine. Crockery clatter, the tap of grounds, hiss of steam, chat and laughter added to the racket of music from a speaker right behind her.
For a short time, Georgie allowed herself to enjoy other people’s normal. She got a score update on the Grand Final from a guy who was listening to the game on a transistor radio and grimaced as the Cats were storming away from her Pies. She eavesdropped on conversations and people-watched, knowing that concentration and inspiration wouldn’t come if she tried to force them.
‘How’s your mum these days?’ a woman said.
‘Not so good,’ another replied. ‘She had a fall in the garden last week.’
After sad ‘Aw’ sounds from her friends, she said, ‘I ended up giving her the option of a trip to Emergency or Dr Rod.’
When the women started talking about the lovely Dr Rod, Georgie tuned into the four old men.
‘– discipline never did us any harm.’ The speaker made a guttural sound. ‘That’s what’s wrong with today’s generation: too soft, mollycoddled.’
‘Hear, hear,’ his friends said.
Georgie rolled her eyes. The action skimmed her gaze over faces in the shop: footy man, overdressed tourists, the grumpy old men, hyper kids, hippy parents and the group of older women.
She flicked between the woman in her early sixties whose mum had to choose between Dr Rod or hospital—immaculate with pewter hair and matching coloured cardigan—and a young mother with dreadlocks and no makeup, her baby slung to her chest in a rainbow-coloured, coarsely knit wrap.
I can’t see Hippy Mum being keen on western medicine, except as a last resort.
Georgie considered the advertising signs in this Olinda–Mount Dandenong area for spa treatments, physiotherapy, massage and organic products, and the diversity of the folk inside the café and out on the street that wasn’t unlike what you’d see in Daylesford: conservatives, hippies and those middle-of-the-road, a long-bearded man and his bushy grey-haired female companion both in mud-spattered overalls, women highly made-up, others au naturel.
It struck her that this area must be big on options.
She thumbed a quick text to Sam. ‘Has anyone checked local therapists? All sorts, including alternative stuff. Ask Bernie – must be heaps???? Maybe treated the kids????’
Sam read a text from Georgie. ‘Bernie, have all the local therapists been checked out?’
‘You mean shrinks?’
‘Hmm.’ She gave it thought. ‘No, the whole spectrum – natural therapists and allied health professionals. Someone could’ve treated the kids without realising who they were, or they could have been lied to.’
The Olinda cop connected eyes with her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not exhaustively, to my knowledge, and there’s a lot of them too. Good idea.’
Sam admitted, ‘I can’t claim it.’ She wiggled her mobile. ‘Georgie asked. But I think we should prioritise any that are already on our list.’
As Franklin wasn’t on shift and wouldn’t be dealing with general duties later, he drove his white SS Commodore, not a police vehicle. He’d donned full uniform though, content with the compromise between official and casual.
He pulled into the Taylor’s driveway and surveyed the property. A modest sedan sat in front of him to the left of the neat brick-veneer house, and the trimmed front lawn abutted overflowing garden beds.
The image suited what he knew to be a relatively conservative nuclear family: mum, dad, one daughter Hannah’s age, one slightly older son, two economical cars and no real trouble with the police. There’d been one episode of shoplifting involving the son, which a caution seemed to deal with.
Franklin exited, taking care not to slam the car door. He didn’t want to broadcast his presence to the neighbours and wasn’t sure what reception he’d receive from the Taylors. They were good people and involved themselves in many aspects of the community, but his questions would suggest he believed Bianca held information about the kids’ disappearance. Many parents would be alarmed and offended and their reaction could be to show him the door.
Franklin followed a concrete path to the verandah and tapped on the flyscreen, hearing a distant TV or radio.
After some muffled sounds, a shadow appeared behind the screen.
‘Mr Franklin.’ The voice was tired, female and unsurprised. ‘You’ve come to speak with our Bee.’
Mrs Taylor admitted him, but lingered in the hallway.
‘We’re not really sure how to handle all this.’
‘Twelve to fifteen’s not an easy time for girls,’ Franklin said and they shared smiles. His boots creaked as he shifted his weight. ‘And this is no ordinary situation, so don’t beat yourself up.’
Her smile trembled.
‘I can only imagine what I’d do if something happened to Kat’s best friend.’ Franklin pictured Lisa Cantrell and had to shake the image from his mind. ‘I guess I’d encourage Kat to let her emotions out and give her some space.’
Mrs Taylor nodded intensely. ‘We’re trying.’
With that, she led him through to the family room.
Bingo bango.
Franklin had struck it lucky: Bianca Taylor sat cross-legged on the floor, and sprawled around her or on the furniture were Jess, Tracey, Grace and their gangly male buddy, Cale. Not popular enough to be a clique, too cool for outcasts, these were Hannah’s closest mates.
‘Sure do, thanks.’ Franklin’s wave was a polite request for a private chat.
Bianca’s mother got it. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. But Bee, darl, you haven’t had lunch, so you should –’
‘Mum. We’re. Not. Hungry.’
Bianca didn’t sound catty, more like she was reiterating something already established.
Her mother smiled wanly and left.
The girl angled towards him, a black shroud of makeup and clothes doing nothing to hide the rawness of grief on her young face.
‘You haven’t found them.’
‘Not yet, I’m sorry.’ He added, ‘But we’re working hard.’
He eased into the spare armchair, sympathising with Grace, who rubbed at a spot under her eye, either wiping away tears or trying not to cry again, further smearing her black makeup.
These kids weren’t Goths, so he asked, ‘Is the get-up in tribute to Hanny and her brothers?’
‘We’re holding a vigil,’ Bianca answered. ‘We’re not going to sleep or eat today. We’re going to light candles once it’s dark and sit and think and talk about them. They’ll feel it, wherever they are.’
Grace lost it and covered her face.
Hannah
While the footy match blasted on the TV in the other room, Hannah did exercises lying on the bed. She tried to sleep because her brain felt thick, which worried her as much as how quickly she got tired.
But every time she closed her eyes, she started to freak out. She had to get out of here and find help. Then she’d need all her energy to find her little bros.
The best shot Josh had taught her about would be tonight, while the men were at the gig. But she still had no idea how she’d get out of this room and past the rottie.
And then what? Her mind went berko.
What if it’s, like, midnight when I get outside? Will there be streetlights or at least a moon…or will it be pitch black? Am I somewhere in the sticks and totally isolated or are their people about?
She gave herself a Chinese burn to make her settle down. Going mental wasn’t going to help her…or Riley and Coops.
She needed a plan.
Chapter 43
Franklin rubbed his lip. As a cop, he often intruded on people’s misery. He had learned to live with it. And years of experience had also taught him the value of timing. When to wait, listen, gently probe or push.
Now was a time to shut up and observe.
The friends had encircled Grace in a group hug, speaking too low for him to hear. Eventually, they returned to their spots, except Bianca, who stayed with her arm around Grace.
‘This sucks, doesn’t it?’ Franklin said.
Cale agreed, ‘Yeah.’
Franklin watched Tracey wring her hands. A little while later, she said, ‘Mr Franklin –’
‘Just call me Franklin, if you like.’
They cracked small smiles, except Tracey who finished her thought. ‘You know what they’re saying on Facebook –?’
She didn’t finish. Bianca gave Grace a quick squeeze and uncurled from the floor, beckoning Franklin to the open laptop on a sideboard.
The kids crowded in as she pointed to an entry. ‘Read it. Out loud.’
He did. ‘“Hannah, where are you? Please stay safe. We all love you.”’
Sad faces and love hearts punctuated the message.
‘We don’t even know that person.’
‘Could it be a relative?’
Bianca did a palm lift.
Franklin scrolled to the first response. ‘“i heard she topped herself and took out her bros to”.’ He frowned. ‘You sure you want me to read these out?’
Tight-lipped, Bianca nodded.
‘“Someone saw them walking up Vincent street.”…“When?”…“An hour ago”…“Who saw her”…“I’m not sure”…“What about the brothers?”…“Don’t know”…“has anyone tolled her parens?”…“she s a slut and got watz cuming to her”…“Some vry happy paedos out there at the mo”…“Did they run away or wot”…“In box me if you know something. Please!!!”’
Franklin read the rest silently. Most were useless, unfounded gossip and fake leads bogging down the page admins; some pure filth. He felt slimed, and hoped Ness and Duane were unaware of their kids trending on the net.
They all sat again. Bianca’s laptop was closed but reminded Franklin that the longer the kids were missing, the more lies would be published, staying in cyberspace, tainting the Savages forever.
‘Any truth among it, as far as you know?’ he asked.
Each shook their head.
‘Do you guys use Facebook and stuff much?’ Franklin kept deliberately casual.
‘Some of us do. Just Insta and YouTube,’ Tracey said, while Bianca and Cale nodded. Grace did another headshake and Jess made an uninterpretable motion.
‘Oh and a bit of Facebook,’ Cale clarified. ‘It’s a bit old now though.’
Franklin nodded. ‘What about Hannah or her brothers?’
Bianca shrugged. ‘She used to say social media was lame – people telling the world their problems or secrets then wondering why they got bullied.’
He considered her word choice. ‘Used to?’
‘Yeah, she flipped on it.’
‘When?’
‘Dunno. Maybe three or four months ago.’
He couldn’t help but hook an eyebrow. ‘She didn’t start using it herself?’
‘Nah, and she would’ve said something to me, at least.’ She didn’t sound certain.
‘Do you guys have many online friends?’
‘Yeah.’ Cale’s tone suggested Franklin was out of touch.
‘Know them all?’
Cale and Bianca suppressed grins.
‘Not exactly.’
‘But most of them are like, from school, friends-of-friends…’
So easy to friend them, stalk them, find out way too much about their world and their mates – Hannah included.
Georgie asked everyone in the café if they’d seen anything that might help. She could tell they wished they had and could feel their sympathy and curiosity when she returned to her seat. The sensation added with the frustration of being on the brink of a breakthrough was pissing her off.
What did I see in Zena’s photos before?
She jumped when her mobile erupted. Fumbling as she retrieved it, she saw Matty on screen and accepted the call.
‘Gee.’ He rushed straight in. ‘Got something.’
Georgie pushed her mobile against her left ear and plugged her right one, blocking the café noise. ‘Go on!’
‘One of my cop informants is on the Marzena Betka taskforce.’
‘Right?’ She was puzzled, but hopeful.
‘This is off the record.’ He emphasised, ‘Strictly.’
Georgie gripped the phone harder. ‘Okay.’
‘They’ve found a link to a sex predator.’
Her heart sank.
He continued. ‘A Haydn Wylder from the Croydon area.’
She gasped. ‘Shit. How’s Haydn spelt?’
‘H, a, y, d, n.’
Georgie tipped back on her chair and stared at the ceiling, mute with shock.
Matty hammered questions at her. When she managed to speak, she explained about the broken phone retrieved from the National Park with messages between Rikki and Haydn.
Is Rikki another victim?
What did it mean for Hanny and the boys?
Franklin kept his questions broad, asking about school, Hanny’s social life and significant others.
Grace giggled, a definite improvement on tears. ‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend.’ She cut her eyes to their male mate. ‘Unless you count Cale. He totally drools over her.’
Franklin didn’t want to embarrass the kid but asked, ‘You have a crush on Hannah?’
Cale’s cheeks flamed. Answer enough for now.
‘She gets along wi
th just about everyone,’ Bianca said.
‘Just about everyone? Who does she have issues with?’
Grace spoke. ‘Some of the boys pick on her.’
Franklin nodded her on.
‘They say she’s got fuggly teeth and no one will want to kiss her cos it’s gross. And no wonder her dad left, cos she smells.’
‘You serious?’ Hannah’s slightly crooked front teeth suited her as much as the messy, sandy ponytail and freckles did. And she never stank, not even after pelting the bag at the studio.
‘I think it’s cos they like her.’ Grace wore an old-beyond-her-years expression.
Franklin hadn’t been that bad as a pre-teen but he’d done his share of dumb stuff. ‘Could be – but it’s not the right way to go about it, is it?’ The kids shook their heads. ‘I won’t mention you, but I’ll need those boys’ names.’
The three names didn’t come as a surprise. Not hardened delinquents but pranksters who fancied themselves as cool.
‘Anybody else give Hanny or her brothers a hard time?’
She could be dismissive of her younger brothers occasionally, while also fiercely protective. But the kids hadn’t come up with anything useful before Mrs Taylor came in to check she’d closed the windows. Her rutted forehead indicated that Franklin had overstayed.
He said, ‘Just a couple more questions and we’ll leave it until tomorrow…’
She nodded and slipped out.
‘Has Hannah changed in any other ways?’
Cale wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah.’
Jess’s head-tilt caught Franklin’s attention but she dropped her eyes. He judged that she wanted to tell him something, yet had mixed feelings and pushing wouldn’t help.
He tried a final angle. ‘Does she talk about her biological dad much?’
The Mount Isa cops were confident Savage couldn’t have abducted his kids, but he could’ve been involved, so his relationship with his kids needed to be established from someone more objective than his ex-wife and her fiancé.
Into the Fog Page 23
