ADAM GARRETT HAD reinvented himself once before: he could do it again. Where this time? Victoria? He had good Western Australian ID in his wallet and the chamois pouch strapped to his waist—birth certificate, driver’s licence and even a marriage certificate—but did he want to drive all the way to Perth? What he could do was find a place to live in Melbourne, maybe Geelong, and start using the WA documents to build a legitimate Victorian ID. Get a job, pay rent, then, over several months, establish local connections—drinking buddies; movies with a casual girlfriend; weekend hikes with a bushwalking club—and, bit by bit, apply for a licence, a library card, a replacement Medicare card. Become a new person, not just fake it.
But he spent most of the first week laying false trails for the police to follow. Using Melodie’s Visa, he bought petrol in Port Augusta, Whyalla, Ceduna and finally Tarcoola—clearly this fugitive was crossing the Nullarbor Plain to Western Australia. At Tarcoola he turned around and came back, this time using cash to keep his car fuelled up. At Broken Hill he swapped his eyesore green Mazda 2 and $875 cash for a Holden ute and headed deep into New South Wales, topping up the fuel whenever he could, dining in the kinds of roadside eateries that had a back-door exit, staying in the kinds of bush motels that didn’t ask questions. And always, wherever he stayed, he kept a change of clothes in the ute and the ignition key nearby—under a garden-border stone, a beer crate—in case he was forced to dive out of a window in his jocks.
In Dubbo he bought a new phone and in Bathurst paid a photographer for a range of portraits and full-body shots. ‘Kind of a joke,’ he said, ‘to hang up at my wedding reception.’
Garrett with and without glasses. With and without gel-spiked hair. In shorts, a T-shirt and thongs, in jeans and a hoodie, in a suit and tie. ‘So she knows what she’s getting,’ he joked.
The photographer smiled without interest. ‘You don’t need wedding photos, by any chance?’
Garrett was regretful. ‘Sorry. Wedding’s in Perth. My future father-in-law has all that arranged.’
‘Too bad. Hope it goes well.’
It was all part of creating a life, and as he drove further east and south, it occurred to him that Anita was probably good at that kind of thing. Slipping in and out of different guises. Creating different stories.
He listened to the news on those long stretches between towns, and if there was wi-fi he checked his phone before he slept at night. Craig Tolhurst featured now and then. The latest story had him standing on the tarmac at Sydney airport, welcoming the return of his son’s body.
Bet that cost a bundle, Garrett thought, peering at his phone. He saw Tolhurst shrug off reporters. The guy didn’t look like a gunslinger now, just a tired old parent.
He tossed the phone aside, flopped back on his pillow. He felt shitty, frankly. Guilt, pity and a profound hope that Tolhurst would forget him.
Then, shortly after that, Melodie was in the news.
The story broke in stages, over several days. First, a private investigator had been found murdered in her office in the Adelaide suburb of Norwood. Then: she’d been discovered following reports of a suspicious smell in the building. And: the private investigator found murdered in her office had been identified as Melodie Pithouse, 54, originally of Sydney. And: Pithouse had not been licensed to operate in South Australia. Finally: police wished to speak to an associate of Ms Pithouse, Adam Garrett, 29, last seen driving a 2015 lime-green Mazda 2.
Spooked, Garrett pulled over and checked his wallet and document pouch again. He was Louis Denton now. There was nothing to tie him to Adam Garrett.
Still continuing south and east, he stopped for a day in Bega, where he swapped his numberplates for a set bearing a similar combination of letters and numbers. The Victorian border was not so far away, yet he felt a curious hesitation about making the crossing. It seemed to propose permanency of some kind. He might stay there forever. Never see Anita again. Was that what he wanted?
He got back on the road and was 150 kilometres from the border when Gaynor Bernard messaged him on Telegram: Is it true what the police are saying about you?
Garrett pulled over again. I did a bit of surveillance work for her, that’s all. She hung out with some very dodgy people.
No reply. He set out again and crossed the border and the hours passed and night drew in. At 9 p.m., deeply fatigued, he found a room above the bar of a pub that smelt of beer, old nicotine and misery. A warm night, summer would soon be opening, offering hope, but Garrett was simply assailed by loneliness and indecision.
Then, at close to midnight: This Grace person: are you going to hurt her?
Adam Garrett thought long and hard. No. She made a dent in my heart. He didn’t know if he was lying or not.
Time went by, silence from Gaynor. And after a while, he realised that he half-believed what he’d written. He felt the sting of regret for the lost years. Neet—she’d been a victim too.
He didn’t know what he wanted to do—about Neet, to Neet, for Neet. He was tired of running, his nerves were shot. She’d been his only true friend; she was his only chance in life. But at the same time, he’d like to hear her acknowledge that she’d hurt him; say she was sorry about it. At the very least, he really wanted the watch back. If she still had it.
He continued to wait for Gaynor’s reply. Maybe she was up there in the hills laughing at his dented-heart bullshit.
When he woke in the morning, there it was. She came here with her boss. Mandel’s Collectibles in Battendorf.