20

Brigitte had been wrong. It was a train to Traralgon, then a bus to Bairnsdale, and then another bus to Paynesville.

She’d slept on the train. And she quite liked the bus. The seats were upholstered in purple fabric with white swirls; the engine’s vibration buzzed comfortably through her body. It reminded her of primary-school excursions. She leaned her head back and recalled a trip to the zoo where an emu attacked her (because her lunchbox was red, her grade-two teacher had said). And another when she’d accidentally knocked over a display of apples at the Victoria Market and the stallholder had yelled at her. On the school bus, there had always been one kid with travel sickness who had to sit up the front, while the cool kids squashed into the back row. Brigitte had sat somewhere in between, about where she was now. The smells of Tupperware, bananas, and the hint of vomit cleaned but not forgotten. Childhood excitement — flutters of anticipation, the possibility of the destination. Back then, she’d pretended she was going on an adventure from which she’d never have to go home.

The novelty of the bus wore off between Rosedale and Sale. She read a V/Line brochure, and then, for lack of anything else, opened Matt’s book to where she’d left off. The plot took a new direction in chapter five: Detective Robert Moore had a secret life. He was having an affair with a younger woman called Annaleah, had been for years. Of course — the names were all from Nick Cave songs! Flashback to Moore falling in love with beautiful, fragile Annaleah during his daily hospital visits to her while investigating the hit-and-run accident that had left her on life support when she was just nineteen. OK. Kind of flattering, and amusing. Brigitte stopped smirking when it was revealed that Annaleah had twins to Robert, but had kept the father’s identity a secret. That was just plain creepy. She swigged from her water bottle, trying to wash away the bad taste in her mouth.

As the bus pulled into Bairnsdale station, the forensic pathologist attributed Mrs Deanna Moore’s cause of death to an incised wound to the neck, inflicted by a person or persons with a single-bladed, serrated knife. Oh my fucking God. She’d have to tell Aidan about this. No, she wouldn’t. But … No. It was crazy, and Aidan would get angry at any mention of Matt. Throat-slashing was a popular method of murdering characters in crime fiction. Just a funny coincidence. Coincidence. Not funny.

***

The media circus continued along the Paynesville foreshore. For the final leg of the endless public-transport journey, Brigitte lugged her bag onto the ferry. A full quota of vehicles, including a furniture-removalist van, drove on. She wondered who was moving out, or in.

Jeremy gave the walkway rails a wipe and then returned the cleaning rag and disinfectant spray to the bucket he had looped over his arm.

Mike the butcher was the last to board on foot. At first, Brigitte didn’t recognise him without his bloodied apron; she didn’t even know he lived on the island. Jeremy gave Mike something from the bucket and Mike handed him a plastic bag.

Jeremy saw Brigitte watching them. ‘Bones for my dog,’ he said, holding out the bag for her to see. ‘Sorry to hear about your pop.’ He offered a downturned smile.

‘Thanks.’

Jeremy moved on, and stopped for a word with the driver in a car up the front: a green Lexus she didn’t recognise from the island. She couldn’t see if there was a ferry pass stuck on the windscreen, but the rust-free undercarriage told her the car was just visiting. Jeremy leaned in and exchanged one of those complicated, sliding handshakes that look silly unless you’re young or an American basketball player. The driver wasn’t a gym buddy by the look of the scrawny arm flexed on the window frame.

Two women in a red Corolla — Jenz on the number plate — had their windows down and were singing along with a Meat Loaf song blaring on the stereo. They looked like sisters, or mother and daughter. Brigitte twisted her mouth, went into the passenger saloon, and shut the door.

Guilt swished in her gut as she sat on the bench seat and closed her eyes. Nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened. She heard Jeremy’s Doc Martens pound up the stairs to the control stand. The ferry cranked and Meat Loaf belted.

She trudged up Sixth Avenue, feeling dusty and dirty, as though she’d been away for three years rather than three days. Apprehension mingled with anticipation.

Home. No Territory in the driveway. Zippy came yelping and bounding at full pelt. He jumped against the broken gate and pushed it open. She let him knock her against the fence and slobber on her as she rubbed his back and patted his head.

The screen door was off its rail, leaning against the back of the house. Inside, she threw her bag into the bedroom, flung her coat over the door, and headed towards the family sounds coming from the lounge room.

Phoebe was drawing tattoos on Ella’s arm with a permanent marker. Finn was playing Need For Speed on the Xbox with Harry.

‘Gotcha again!’ Finn laughed, pressing buttons on his controller.

‘Bloody coppers,’ Harry said as police vehicles, sirens blaring, surrounded his red Bugatti Veyron.

The twins looked up at Brigitte and then back to what they were doing.

Ella squealed and ran to her. Brigitte scooped her up and peppered her little fairy face with kisses.

‘Where’s Aid?’ she asked Harry over Ella’s shoulder.

‘Work,’ Harry said.

‘Thought he had an early shift today.’

Harry shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

Her stomach churned. She lowered Ella to the floor, and headed to the kitchen to check Aidan’s roster stuck on the fridge. No arvo or night shift.

Harry walked into the room.

‘What happened to the screen door?’ she said.

‘Fell off.’

‘Zippy?’

‘No. Aid. Tried to fix it, but I think it’s broken.’

Brigitte walked across to inspect the rail.

‘Seen the CCTV?’ Harry said.

She straightened up and shook her head.

‘They got footage of Maree Carver on the ferry. It’s on The Age website.’ Harry was behind her; he placed a hand on her back. ‘There’s leftovers in the fridge for your dinner.’

‘Thanks. And for watching the kids.’

‘Anytime, mate,’ he said on his way out.

She should have thrown Dead in the Water in the bin, but she went to the bedroom and put it in her underwear drawer.

Steve Williams — serious, suited, sober — spoke slowly at a media conference. Victoria Police emblem — laurel wreath and five-point star — on a blue screen behind him. ‘The footage depicts Maree boarding the ferry at Paynesville and alighting at Raymond Island.’

Cut to footage of the ferry. The shapes in the video were black and white and grey — grainy, distorted, elongated. It looked windy, cold. Pale lights rippled the water. Scott spoke to Maree Carver briefly as she walked on, her face visible for only a split second; the rest of the vision was of her back.

Poor Scott. He must have been the last person to see her alive. No wonder he was on stress leave.

Maree Carver was wearing a light-coloured trench coat, dark leggings, high heels, handbag on the crook of her arm. She walked through the passenger saloon to the front of the ferry. She stopped, looked in the direction of the island, hair whipping around her shoulders. She pulled the hood of her coat on.

Brigitte shivered.

Steve’s voice over the video: ‘No other pedestrians appear to board, but the footage depicts two cars travelling on the ferry. We’re appealing for anyone who was there on that evening to contact Crime Stoppers. We’re interested in talking to anyone who was in the Paynesville or Raymond Island area between the hours of 10pm and midnight on Thursday seventh of March who may have seen Maree, or indeed anyone who knows who the people in the cars are. We’re particularly interested in talking to the person driving the Subaru station wagon, or the dark-coloured Lexus depicted in the footage who appears to be talking to Maree.’

Maree Carver leaned over the passenger rail, saying something to somebody in the Lexus, the driver out of shot.

‘If anyone knows anything or thinks they can assist in this investigation, we urge them to contact Crime Stoppers. Investigators are continuing to work through CCTV footage. We’re also conducting other inquiries and investigations. We currently have around two hundred calls to Crime Stoppers which we need to scrutinise thoroughly.’

Back to vision of Steve.

‘The footage was taken on the Raymond Island ferry. Around 10.50pm is the last confirmed sighting of Maree alive,’ he said.

Video. Maree Carver walked off the ferry onto the island. The footage replayed from the start.

Steve took questions. A media person asked a question that was muffled, difficult to hear.

‘She doesn’t make the return trip, no,’ Steve answered.

‘Red, right, return,’ Ella said.

Brigitte looked away from her laptop screen, at Ella standing in the bedroom doorway.

‘It’s how you find your way back when you’re on a boat. I saw it on telly. But Harry says that’s wrong. It’s only in America. Here, it’s red, left, return, because the boys have red marks on the other side. But I think red, right, return sounds better. Don’t you?’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The boys, in the water.’

Oh, the buoys.

Ella ran off; Brigitte closed her laptop and sat it next to her on the bed. She rested her hands on her knees and frowned up at her cream trench coat hanging by its hood over the door.