Aimee Russell opened her front door with a surprised look that turned into a smile. ‘Rowan, right? Wow. How are you? It’s been ages.’ A girl of about three peered around her leg.
‘He nodded at them both, and remembered the child’s name was Charlotte. ‘Do you have a minute?’
‘Well, sure. Come in.’
They sat in the kitchen. Aimee wore jeans and a black T-shirt with a cartoon chicken on the front, and her feet were bare. The little girl ran off, and he could hear Play School on in another room. He said, ‘This is Imogen.’
The women smiled at each other. ‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’ Aimee said.
‘No, thanks,’ Rowan said. ‘Have you heard from Stacey today?’
‘No, why?’
‘I’m sorry to say it like this, but she might be in trouble.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He found her car with blood in it, and the police don’t know where she is,’ Imogen said.
Aimee looked back and forth between them. ‘Are you kidding me? Is this for real?’
‘When did you last talk to her?’ Rowan asked.
‘Hang on a minute. You’re not joking?’
‘I wish I was,’ he said.
She bit her lip. ‘Last week. Friday. I rang to see if she wanted to go out for coffee. She was busy. We planned to catch up this week.’
‘Did she tell you about anyone hassling her, anyone who might want to hurt her?’ Rowan asked.
‘No. Never anything like that. Why aren’t the cops asking me this stuff?’
‘The cops start with the family then work out, so I’m trying to find out anything that might help.’
The thought of Stacey’s tears and the apology he owed her burned his heart.
Aimee let out a breath. ‘Was there a lot of blood in the car?’
‘Too much,’ Rowan said.
‘Let me call Claire and Vicky.’ She picked up her phone.
*
Ella and Murray arrived at Aimee Russell’s house to find four cars parked outside. Ella swore when she recognised the one in the driveway: a blue Ford sedan with a paramedic sticker on the back window. ‘Rowan Wylie’s here.’
She banged on the front door with an angry fist, hearing sombre conversation inside, smelling coffee. Murray fumed beside her.
The woman who answered looked about forty, and wore jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Yes?’
Ella held up her badge. ‘Aimee Russell?’
‘Yes.’ She looked relieved. ‘Has there been any news?’
‘Not yet,’ Murray said. ‘We’d like to talk to Rowan.’
Rowan was sitting in the lounge room drinking coffee with three other women. He looked a little embarrassed to see them in the doorway. Ella beckoned him out, and they went into the dining room and she shut the door. He sat at the dining table with a nervous expression on his face. Ella took the chair opposite and stared at him until he lowered his gaze to the polished timber. She thought of the killers who took pains to insinuate themselves into police investigations, to get involved in searches, to miraculously locate the body. To find the car. To talk to possible witnesses before she did.
‘Do you know why we’re here?’ she said.
‘As part of the investigation, I assume.’
‘And can you tell me why you’re here?’ She tried to keep her anger controlled.
‘Aimee’s a friend of Stacey’s. I wanted to know if she’d heard from her. I thought if she had, I could let you know. She hadn’t, but she rang her other two friends and told them what was happening and they came over, but they haven’t heard from her either.’
At the end of the table Murray clicked his pen and made a note. Rowan glanced his way.
‘Did it ever occur to you,’ Ella said, ‘that it might be important that we speak to these people for ourselves?’
‘I knew you would eventually, but I thought in the meantime it would help.’
Did you just. She said, ‘Tell me again how you came to recognise Stacey’s car.’
‘I noticed the paramedic sticker, then the numberplate. I see the car pretty often. I know what it looks like.’
Murray made another note.
‘How close are you and Stacey?’ Ella asked.
‘We’re friends, as I said earlier. Is this really helping, going over and over the same stuff?’
‘Have you had an affair with her?’ Ella asked.
‘What? No!’
Murray marked his notebook again.
‘How did you two meet?’ Ella said.
‘I told you, at work,’ Rowan said. ‘We were partnered together and became friends. As I’ve said numerous times now.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then what what? I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say.’
‘When did you meet?’
‘I told you before. Eight or nine years ago.’
‘And you introduced her to James.’
‘Again like I said before, I was friends with him already. We had a party at our place. They both came and they hit it off.’
‘Were you jealous?’ Murray asked.
‘Are you kidding? I was married. They were – they are – my friends. I was delighted for them.’
‘Do you ever see her outside work?’
‘Now and then. Sometimes she comes to Playland with Em and me. Occasionally we have dinner at their place, or they come to ours.’
‘When was the last time that happened?’ Ella said. ‘The dinner?’
Rowan frowned. ‘It’d have to be a few months.’
‘Why so long?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Who stopped inviting who?’ Murray asked.
Rowan paused. ‘They did. I think. Or we both did. I don’t know. Life’s been busy.’
Murray wrote something else.
‘What are you writing?’ Rowan asked.
Ella said, ‘How do you and James get on?’
‘Fine. Why?’
‘He ever have a problem with you and Stacey working together?’
‘What? Did he say that?’
‘I’m just asking a question,’ Ella said.
‘If he did, he never said so to me. And Stacey never told me either. It’s a ridiculous idea, anyway.’
‘All right,’ Ella said. ‘You happened to notice her car, you happened to glance inside it. You’re talking to her friends before we do. Is there a reason you’re so intent on helping us find her?’
‘I’m her friend,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
Ella waited.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘If you really must know, I have a son who’s semi-missing. So a sign that something might’ve happened to someone I care about gets my attention. Okay?’
‘I’ve never heard of someone being semi-missing,’ Ella said.
‘He left home five years ago and I haven’t spoken to him since. But he sends postcards now and again, from different places in western New South Wales, so I know he’s okay, but I’ve never been able to get in touch with him.’
‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘Angus. He’s twenty-four.’
Ella wondered if this was some kind of convenient cover, an effort to mask his attempts at involvement in the case. She’d look into it later, but right now they had to get on with the case.
‘That’s all for now. Ask Ms Russell to come in now, and don’t leave until we’ve spoken to you again.’ That should keep him stewing in his juices.
Aimee Russell hurried in. ‘So there’s no news? You really don’t know what’s happened to her?’
‘We’re trying to put that together,’ Ella said. ‘Can we start with your full name and date of birth, please?’
When they had all her particulars, Ella said, ‘When did you last have any contact with Stacey?’
‘On Friday.’ Aimee described how she’d rung her to go out for a coffee, but Stacey had said she was busy.
‘Doing what?’ Murray asked.
‘She didn’t say.’
‘How did she sound?’ Ella asked.
‘A bit flat, like she was tired.’
‘Did that seem strange?’
Aimee nodded. ‘She’s usually pretty perky unless she’s coming off nights, and I know she wasn’t that day. You can hear her smile when she answers the phone, that sort of thing.’
‘And on Friday she wasn’t smiling?’ Murray said.
‘Definitely not.’
‘Did she ever confide in you?’ Ella asked.
‘She’d talk sometimes about work things – a sad case, a tough one – but she didn’t talk much about personal stuff. If we were out as a group and someone started bitching about their husband or whatever, she didn’t really say anything. The times when she did mention James it was pretty surface stuff: he was busy at work, that sort of thing. Never any detail about issues or sex or anything.’
‘Do you know him well?’ Ella said.
‘Not really. He seems an okay guy, though when we were out he’d often text or call and ask her something, and it was always something that I’d think could’ve waited, like “do we have plans on the weekend?” or “did you buy any parmesan?”. I asked her once whether he was suspicious of what she was up to, but she brushed it off. It always struck me as strange, though.’
‘Did she ever give an indication that she was annoyed or upset about him doing that?’ Murray asked.
‘No,’ Aimee said. ‘She’d just answer him then go on with the conversation.’
‘Did he do or say any other odd things?’ Ella said.
Aimee thought. ‘He was always up when I dropped her home, no matter how late it was. He’d open the door and wait for her to come in. But they don’t have kids, so he probably doesn’t need sleep as much as my husband does.’
‘About kids,’ Ella said. ‘They’re not having any?’
‘When Charlotte was born, Stacey told me she’d like to, but that was three years ago and she’s never said it again since, and when I asked her she said no.’ As if on cue, a little girl came into the room and leaned on her mother’s leg.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
Aimee looked at Ella and Murray. ‘Are we finished?
‘Almost,’ Ella said. ‘Did you ever get the idea that Stacey might be seeing or interested in someone else?’
‘I’d be very surprised. If she was, she was hiding it well.’
‘With some people you can tell when they’re holding something back,’ Murray said. ‘You can tell if they’re not being completely straight. Did she ever give you that feeling?’
‘She can be quiet,’ Aimee said. ‘When she’d talk about those sad jobs, she’d say so much then trail off, but we all work with dying patients at some time so stuff doesn’t need to be spelled out. But I didn’t feel like she was hiding anything big, and I sort of thought that with her husband there just wasn’t much to bitch about. Because she’d talk about her sister Marie pretty freely.’
‘They don’t get on?’ Murray said.
‘They do mostly, but apparently Marie sometimes has this bossy big sister thing going on and it bugs the hell out of Stacey.’ Charlotte whined, and Aimee rubbed her back.
‘Bossy how?’ Ella asked.
‘Well, one time she said that she was talking to Paris, her niece, Marie’s daughter, about some problem with Paris’s boyfriend. Marie told Stacey later she should keep out of it, that she couldn’t possibly understand and help when she wasn’t a mother herself. Stacey was really riled up. She said it was about relationships, not whether you were a parent. I said maybe Marie was jealous that Paris had talked to Stacey about it instead of her, but she didn’t want to talk about it any more.’
‘What else did they fight about?’ Ella asked.
‘That’s the only thing that stands out. Claire and Vicky might remember more, though.’ She gestured towards the lounge room as she spoke.
‘The third woman out there,’ Ella said. ‘Who is she?’
‘Her name’s Imogen. She came here with Rowan. Was it okay that he was asking questions? I did say that I felt I should be talking to you instead.’
‘That would have been better,’ Ella said. ‘How well do you know him?’
‘Not very well. I see him around the hospital sometimes, but I was surprised when he turned up this morning. He and Stacey came here once in the ambulance, dropping off flowers after I’d had Charlotte, but it’s a wonder he remembered where I live.’
Ella and Murray exchanged a glance.
‘How did he seem when he was talking about Stacey?’ Ella asked.
‘Anxious and worried. I understood why he wanted to help.’
‘Did you ever have reason to think there might be something going on between them?’ Murray said.
Aimee shook her head, as Charlotte pulled on her arm. ‘No. They seem like they get on well, and Stacey’s said she has fun when she works with him, but from what I can see it’s the same when she works with anyone else.’
Ella thanked her and gave her a card with the usual instructions, then asked her to send in Imogen.
‘I don’t know Stacey,’ the woman said as soon as she sat down. She was around forty, round-faced, short chestnut hair.
‘Let’s start with some personal details,’ Murray said.
Once that was done, Ella said, ‘I’m curious how she came up in conversation between you and Rowan.’
‘We met for coffee,’ she said. ‘I know his son’s girlfriend. She thought we’d get along and she arranged for us to meet up.’
‘You mean you’ve only just met him today?’ Murray said.
‘Two hours ago,’ Imogen said. ‘He apologised for being distracted and said a friend of his was missing. He talked about what had happened and said he wished he could do something, like ask her friends if they’d seen her. I came with him.’
‘Not the turn of events you’d expect on a blind date,’ Ella said. ‘How was he when he was talking about her?’
‘Concerned, worried, upset. I’d thought he seemed distant because he didn’t really want to be there, but then it made sense.’
They let her go, then interviewed Stacey’s other friends. Claire Comber was a thin woman of thirty-nine who blinked back tears and crossed and recrossed her jeans-clad legs. She was a paramedic who’d worked with Stacey on and off over the past few years. ‘I can’t understand why this would happen. Stacey’s the best.’
She couldn’t recollect any stories of trouble with anyone, no hints that Stacey was hiding anything or seeing anyone behind James’s back.
‘James is a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Keeps in touch, lets her know where he is. He calls the station sometimes when she’s on duty, pretends he’s Control and tries to give us ridiculous jobs.’
Ella resisted the urge to glance at Murray.
Vicky Page, a surgical nurse, forty-one, was deep-voiced and serious with dark circles under her eyes and long black hair in a plait.
‘James is the one to look at,’ she said as soon as she’d sat down.
‘Why do you say that?’ Ella asked.
‘Because the first time I met him I shook his hand and knew he would cause her trouble. I’m a little bit psychic and I’m hardly ever wrong on these things.’
‘Right,’ Ella said. ‘Has Stacey ever confided in you about problems she was having?’
‘No, but I know she’s unhappy in her marriage. I’ve been divorced three times, so between that and being psychic I can tell what’s going on.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘She’s not happy. He doesn’t treat her well. It looks fine on the outside but it’s not.’
‘Have you ever talked to Stacey about it?’ Murray asked.
‘I’ve tried a couple of times, but she’s not ready yet,’ Vicky said. ‘She will be, one day. Meantime I make sure I’m there for her.’
‘How do you do that?’ Murray asked.
‘Call her up, see if she needs a chat. Meet up for coffee. Plan a movie night. The little things can really help.’
‘Have you ever seen signs that James was violent?’ Ella said.
‘I don’t think he is. I’ve never read that in her stress levels.’
‘Were you aware of times she was stressed because she wasn’t getting along with anyone else?’ Murray asked.
‘Not so much,’ Vicky said. ‘Her personality type means she gets on with people.’
‘Not so much,’ Ella repeated. ‘You mean sometimes?’
‘No. More like not at all.’
Ella wanted to bang her own head on the table.
Murray must have felt the same, because he said, ‘Is there anything else, anything at all you can tell us about her that might help us work out what’s happened?’
‘Give me a moment.’ Vicky sank her chin into her neck and breathed deeply. ‘No. Nothing’s coming to me.’
Ella slapped her card on the table and stood up. ‘Call us if you do happen to remember something.’
‘There is one thing,’ Vicky said.
Ella and Murray turned back from the doorway.
‘It’s important for you to look after yourself now.’
‘Thank you,’ Murray said. ‘We will.’
‘Not you,’ Vicky said, and pointed at Ella. ‘You.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ella asked.
‘Just what I said.’
Ella gave up and went out. Nutters – they were everywhere.
Aimee, Rowan, Imogen and Claire were waiting in the lounge room.
‘No more investigating,’ Ella said to Rowan. ‘You think of anything, you call us.’
He nodded, but seemed unperturbed.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Murray said to the group, then he and Ella walked outside.
It was starting to rain as they got into the car.
‘Why’d she say that to you?’ Murray said. ‘I’m the one getting married in four days. I’m the one with the pre-wedding nerves, the one who needs to stay healthy.’
‘Forget the crazy,’ Ella said. ‘Aimee said James calls Stacey when they’re out and waits at the door when she gets home, and Claire said he calls the station. That’s bordering on possessive, if you ask me.’
‘I wait up for Natasha if she goes out, and I call her sometimes too,’ Murray said. ‘You’re saying I’m possessive?’
‘You’re still in the honeymoon phase. They’ve been married for years. They’d be over that.’
‘Only five.’
Ella ignored him and started the car. ‘James was eyeing off Rowan and had asked Paris about him and Stacey; Rowan found her car and is snooping; what comes next?’
‘Let’s see who’s home at Rowan’s house,’ Murray said.
*
After the police had left, Paris tried to talk to her mother, but Marie said she felt dizzy again and had to lie down, alone, in her room with the door shut.
Paris showered in a daze, then pulled on her pyjamas and climbed into her own bed. She lay there now, still awake, the quilt pulled up over her head though she could hear her mother up again and moving about.
She felt strange about telling the detective of James’s phone call. It hadn’t seemed right that he asked her about Stacey and Rowan, but there was no reason not to answer. And then he’d laughed and made her feel pathetic, as if she wasn’t old enough to get the joke and never would be. So it felt right to tell her, but the gleam in her eyes made Paris think she’d just confirmed something the detective had suspected, and if she suspected that James or Rowan or both were somehow involved in whatever had happened to Stacey . . . It was incomprehensible. These were men she knew and trusted, even if she didn’t exactly delight in their company. And tomorrow she was due back on shift with Rowan, with this in her mind on top of what’d happened last week.
They’d been finishing a nightshift on Thursday morning, and between her tiredness and the general difficulties she’d been having she forgot to replace an empty oxygen cylinder. Rowan was furious, and went on and on about the importance of oxygen and of replacing what you used before getting into ‘how many times do I have to tell you?’. She’d stood with tears in her eyes and tried to apologise, but he’d shook his head and told her to go home and think hard about whether she was right for the job. She’d gone into the locker room and that’s where Stacey found her, sobbing, when she’d come in for her shift ten minutes later. Stacey had comforted her, blamed the whole thing on nightshift and fatigue, and sent her home with money for a fancy coffee on the way and a promise to call later and check in. Rowan’s car had still been on the station when Paris had left but she hadn’t seen him, thank goodness, and when Stacey rang that afternoon she’d said she’d talked to him about it, he’d felt bad about getting angry, and everything was fine.
Problem was, everything wasn’t fine.
She’d realised as a child that there was something wrong with her mind. It had started when she was still at school: after every exam she’d gone over and over it in her head, trying to think where she’d gone wrong, what she should’ve done better. She knew that everyone did that a little bit, but usually by the same afternoon or at most the next day they seemed to be over it. She would still be obsessing weeks later, and it was exhausting. It got worse after her dad died, then again in Years Eleven and Twelve, then had gone off the scale during her paramedic training. She’d done well – she always did well, coming at or close to the top of the class in most things – but it was like she couldn’t trust herself, and always felt certain she’d done it all wrong. Since being on the road, the fear had developed a new dimension: she didn’t trust her training and her knowledge, she was frightened of missing something important in the patient, and most of all she was terrified that this something would slyly worsen, she would fail to notice, and the patient would die right there in front of her.
Then Rowan said she might not be right for the job, and she realised that if he could see it, she had to admit it to herself. But being a paramedic had been her goal since Stacey had come to her house in her new uniform, first week on the job, full of stories about the people she met and the lives she saved. Paris had sat close by her, taking it all in, and thinking – she couldn’t deny it – that someone in just such a uniform had been at her father’s crash. That maybe one day she could go to something like that and this time save the person, and the life of some kid would always be the better for it.
The one thing that kept her going over the past six weeks was Stacey. She’d been a rock, talking her through the problems, reminding her how much she did know, saying that it was hard for a patient to secretly die when you were actually looking at them. She made Paris feel like perhaps she could do it; and perhaps she could make Stacey proud of her too. But now she was missing, and there was blood in her car.
Paris knew now what pools of blood looked like, smelled like. The thought of someone hurting Stacey, of some wound in her flesh like the wounds she’d seen – deep lacerations spilling yellowish fat, exposed red meat like steak, the white flash of bone . . . Who would do that to her, and why? She felt sick in every way. Her heart was cold in her chest, her stomach all clenched up. Her skin and her joints hurt like she had a fever. And the fear of going to work tomorrow and not having Stacey there on belay froze her solid.
She peered with one eye at her phone, resting on the pillow beside her. She’d voicemailed her boyfriend, Liam, but in his job as a technician building medical equipment they had to leave their phones in their lockers. He wouldn’t get the message for another couple of hours.
She called him again, needing to hear his voice even just in his message, and left a long rambly one of her own.
Her mother opened the door without knocking. ‘Who’re you talking to?’
‘Liam.’ Paris hung up and tucked the phone under her pillow.
‘Why are you in bed? You’re not on nights tonight.’
‘I feel awful.’
‘You look okay.’ Still in the doorway, Marie looked critically around the room. ‘Looks like time for a tidy-up.’
‘I need all those books,’ Paris said. ‘Have you heard anything from the police?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I can’t stand to think of her out there somewhere.’
‘Then don’t. Think about something else.’ Marie nudged one of the books with her foot. ‘Think about whether you need this badly enough to keep it on the floor.’
Paris felt tears coming. ‘Do you think James did something to her?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘In the news it’s always the husband, they always find out later he was behind it.’
‘I’ve known James most of my life, and he wouldn’t have done anything,’ Marie said. ‘Crying’s not going to help her either.’
Paris wiped her face on the sheet. ‘You knew him when you were kids, then when he met her. That’s not most of your life.’
‘I know him,’ her mother said. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘I feel sick.’ Paris buried herself under the quilt.
‘You’re fine. Come out from under there.’
Paris didn’t answer.
‘You need to get up and do something,’ Marie said, ‘like I do. I’m going to see James soon and make sure he’s okay. I’ll probably stay and cook dinner. You’ve got to keep moving. Find something to do. Activity’s good for the soul.’
Paris looked out. ‘You want me to go with you?’ She didn’t know which answer she wanted.
Marie shook her head. ‘James needs to keep his spirits up. You’d walk in the door and collapse in a sobbing heap. You’d bring us all down.’
‘You collapsed in front of the cops,’ Paris said.
‘That was shock and a whole different thing. You of all people should know that.’
Paris went back under the quilt.
‘Well, if that’s your response,’ Marie said. ‘I’m going now, so you’ll have to sort your own dinner. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
‘I need a hug,’ Paris said.
There was no answer.
She said it again, louder, then looked over the quilt. The door was open, the doorway empty. Her mother had walked away.