Pip glanced at the phone screen and noted the unfamiliar number. ‘Phillipa Davenport.’
‘Ms Davenport, it’s Chris Jarrett.’
‘Detective,’ she greeted, surprised by the caller’s identity but instantly curious.
‘I just thought I’d give you a ring to let you know we’ve got the forensics back on the bones.’
‘Oh? And?’
‘They appear to be from a female, late twenties, approximately one hundred and sixty centimetres tall.’ Pip heard the shuffling of papers before the detective continued. ‘The missing person’s report Bert Bigsby filed on his wife has Molly Bigsby’s height at five feet three inches, which is one hundred and sixty centimetres, and her age at twenty-five years.’
‘Well, that seems pretty conclusive,’ Pip said slowly.
‘Listed on the missing person’s report were some personal items Mrs Bigsby may have been wearing at the time of her disappearance, which included a gold wedding band and distinctive eighteen-carat yellow-gold, three-stone diamond engagement ring and a small gold locket on a chain. All items have been recovered from the submerged vehicle and identified.’ He paused. ‘We’re confident enough with the evidence at hand to identify the body as that of Mrs Molly Bigsby, formerly of Rosevale, Midgiburra.’
Pip held the phone a little tighter. She wasn’t sure how she’d expected to react to the news, but a deep sadness washed over her, unexpectedly.
‘Since you were so curious,’ he added pointedly, ‘I just figured you’d like to know where we’re up to. The details are going to be released to the media within the next hour or so.’
‘So … what now? Do you have a cause of death? Are you still looking at the Clements case?’
‘Give me a break,’ he said, and Pip heard that slow smile of his through the phone. ‘I thought this might tide you over for a bit.’
‘Sorry. Thank you. I have been wondering, and it was really nice of you to let me know you’d made an ID.’
‘Wow, that sounded almost genuine.’
‘It was. I am grateful,’ she said, feeling exasperated. Why did she let this guy push her buttons like that? ‘I’m just wondering if you know how she died?’
‘Still ongoing,’ he told her with a shrug in his tone.
‘Have you managed to link the two cases?’
‘No comment,’ he said lightly.
‘Come on, detective,’ Pip tried persuasively, ‘you said yourself, this is a cold case.’
‘It’s still an active case at the moment, and until I have anything more concrete, I’m not at liberty to share any of it with the media.’
‘But I already told you—I’m not working this story.’
‘And yet here you are, pumping me for info like a seasoned journo,’ he said, sounding amused.
Pip gave a short, forceful huff. ‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’ Oh God, did she seriously just say that? What was she, a seven-year-old?
‘Ms Devonport, are you pouting?’
‘Thank you for the update, detective,’ she managed to get out through clenched teeth, feeling like an idiot, hearing his soft, deep laugh before she ended the call.
Two days later, Pip had just finished a call with her mother when she heard the front gate protesting as it opened. Her heart began to race and she took a moment to do the slow, steady breathing her doctor had taught her. She’d thought she was getting past all this, but maybe it was only because it was an unexpected visitor.
She forced herself to walk to the front door, peeking through the window before breathing out a long breath and unlocking it.
‘Hi, Anne,’ she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as shaky as she was feeling on the inside.
‘Hello, Pip. I’m sorry for barging in on you like this but, well … I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute?’
The Anne she’d met the other day had seemed relaxed and happy as she’d pottered about her kitchen, but today there was a different feel about her. Pip noticed she was wringing her hands together slightly as she stood on the doorstep, and her smile was strained.
‘Of course, come on in,’ Pip said, worried that something terrible may have happened but unsure how it might relate to her. She led the way through to the bright sun-filled kitchen and asked if Anne would like a coffee.
‘This was always such a lovely room,’ Anne said, and this time her smile was softer. ‘Bert loved sitting out here, especially in winter.’
‘I’m finding it’s a nice space to work,’ she said, hesitating only briefly as she came over to gather up the assortment of books and paperwork spread out on the table to toss back into the box. ‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘No, please don’t disrupt your workspace for me,’ Anne said quickly.
Pip looked around helplessly at the clutter she’d created over the past few days trying to sort her research into piles. ‘Maybe we should go outside and sit,’ she said awkwardly.
‘That sounds perfect,’ Anne smiled, looking relieved that Pip had stopped trying to clean up.
As she went across to where her coffee machine took pride of place on the kitchen bench, she noticed Anne darting a curious glance at the contents on the table. Pip tried to decide if she was annoyed or okay with it. On the one hand, there was nothing top secret there and, as far as anyone else knew, it was just a bunch of court documents and legal mumbo-jumbo. On the other hand, she’d never had to worry about anyone disturbing her work because she lived alone and usually had an office to contain her mess.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Anne started cautiously, making Pip glance up a little apprehensively. ‘I overheard someone talking about you in town this morning … Is it true? Are you really a journalist—the one who broke the story on Lenny Knight?’ Pip concentrated extra hard on stirring the contents of the coffee cup before her to hide her surprise. ‘That’s me. Although I wasn’t aware anyone would know me here.’
‘Jan from the bakery said she recognised you from the TV, when all that … trouble happened.’
Pip didn’t have to ask what trouble she meant—clearly her infamy had preceded her.
‘That must have been awful, you poor thing. I’m so glad you’re okay now.’
Yeah, nothing to worry about—I only have the occasional panic attack now and again, she thought blandly. ‘Shall we go outside?’ Pip said, leading the way out the back door and setting the mugs down on the small table on the verandah.
They settled themselves for a few moments in silence before Anne took a sip of her coffee and carefully placed it back down in front of her. ‘I came out here to see you because … well …’ She gave a frustrated little sigh. ‘I honestly don’t know who else can help.’
‘Help? With what?’
‘Help Bert.’
‘Bert Bigsby?’
Anne nodded encouragingly.
‘How would I be able to help him?’
‘You could uncover the story behind Molly’s disappearance. I’ve just come from visiting him, and he was very agitated. The police had been to see him, apparently, and they told him about Molly being found.’
‘Anne, I don’t really think there’s much to uncover. Molly didn’t disappear—she died. On Bert’s property. What if you’re wrong and he might have actually had something to do with it?’
‘But he didn’t,’ Anne said adamantly. ‘If you knew him—before, when he was younger—you would have seen how devastated he was. He was a broken man. He loved Molly. He told me, every day he woke up and hoped that would be the day Molly came home. He didn’t kill her. He’s been living with everyone around him accusing him of this terrible thing—and he’s innocent.’
‘Look, I know it’s hard when you believe someone … you want to believe them. But you said yourself that the war changed him. Even if he is innocent, I don’t know what you think I can do for him. It was seventy-odd years ago. The police are treating it as a cold case. He had an alibi, and they’re not going to reopen an investigation when Bert’s the only one still alive, and he’s in his nineties. They only have circumstantial evidence after all this time. Bert won’t be thrown in prison or anything.’
‘It’s not that,’ Anne said, her eyebrows drawn together in distress. ‘The town’s … well, it’s just dug everything back up again. People are saying the most terrible things about him, and it just breaks my heart.’ Anne touched the corner of her eye quickly before sniffing and clearing her throat. ‘He’s lived his whole life being called a murderer—can you imagine that? People calling you names and accusing you of killing the one person you loved? All the while knowing you didn’t do it and that she was missing.’ Anne stopped and shook her head slowly. ‘He’s led such a lonely, sad life. I just wish his innocence could be proven so he could go in peace—finally. Instead, all this hate has flared up again.’
‘I’m sorry, Anne, but I came here to write a book, and to be honest, I just don’t have time to take on something like this at the moment. I mean, I’m not even sure I know what to believe about the whole thing myself.’
‘I understand,’ Anne said quietly, standing and picking up her cup. ‘I just thought you of all people wouldn’t be so quick to judge—you always seem so impartial and fair-minded in your stories.’
Pip inwardly rolled her eyes. That one hit a nerve. She was impartial, damn it! She’d been going back and forth with the whole Bert thing for days. The fact his missing wife had been found on his property was somewhat damning, and the police were being close-mouthed about the whole thing, which made her wonder if maybe they’d discovered something new. Then there was the alibi that they were still looking into. It wasn’t exactly clear-cut despite Anne’s unwavering certainty of Bert’s innocence. Yet Pip found herself wanting to believe he was innocent too.
As a reporter, Pip knew she had to weigh up both sides of the story and gather all the evidence. And yes, she was bothered by the fact that the whole town already seemed convinced Bert was a murderer and had convicted him in the court of public opinion without a fair trial. But clearing Bert’s name wasn’t her job.
She followed Anne inside and towards the front door, then stopped as the woman turned to face her. ‘Pete and I helped oversee the sale of this place before it went on the market,’ Anne said with a small smile as she glanced around slowly. ‘We sold all the furniture and cleaned the place up as per the solicitor’s instructions. We were told to donate or throw away anything that wouldn’t sell, but I couldn’t bear to get rid of a lot of Bert’s personal belongings, so I packed them up and stored them at our place in case some long-lost relative turned up one day.’ Anne’s smile didn’t suggest she was hopeful of that happening. She seemed to hesitate briefly. ‘If you change your mind, you’re welcome to come and look through Bert’s belongings. In case there’s something in there that might help.’ She bit her lip before blurting out, ‘If you went to see him, you’d understand.’ Pip saw her eyes begin to fill with tears, but she turned and hurried back to her car before Pip could even reply.
Pip watched until the car disappeared and a trail of dust slowly settled in its wake. Anne was clearly upset by the whole thing. Pip understood that, but she still didn’t see that there was anything to be gained by looking into the story after all this time. Still, she felt bad for her neighbour. Anne was clearly a very caring woman who’d taken the town oddball under her wing and looked after him for the last thirty or so years. Of course she would want to try to find some kind of justification for it all … but Pip wouldn’t be the one to do it. She had enough to worry about, writing her own story.