I toss and turn all night, finally giving up on sleep when daylight muscles in around the blinds. I lie looking at the ceiling for a few minutes, my eyes grainy and sore, and wonder how Rick Fletcher’s parents are coping today; they’ve woken up to a new reality, a world without their son.
I push the covers away, careful not to disturb Ben.
I cry in the shower as I wash my hair using the miniature bottles of coconut shampoo and conditioner from the bathroom cupboard. Clad in a towel, I go back to the kitchenette where I tap out a brief email to Jonesy and flick a text to Dad. Through the kitchen window the sea glitters like a field of sapphires. The fishermen are back, and several surfers bob in the white froth a little further along the beach. My mother loved swimming in the ocean; I remember her talking passionately about it. I’ve always been a strong swimmer and since moving to Sydney I regularly swim laps at the local pool, an activity strongly encouraged by my psychologist, but the few times I ventured into the open water I disliked not being able to see below the surface.
Feeling vaguely unwell, I make myself a midnight-black instant coffee and continue to review the case notes, trying to commit the facts to memory.
Abbey has a savings account, and like clockwork she withdraws the four hundred and twenty dollars she is paid every fortnight from a company called Fresh Holdings. That aligns with what Cam mentioned about her working at the local supermarket. I tap my pen against the coffee mug. It would be good to know what she was spending her money on. Perhaps she’s been giving money to her parents, as the Clarks certainly fall into the category of the working poor. Their home was purchased over fifteen years ago and is in Daniel’s name but has a long history of missed payments and is currently in arrears. Dorothy works casually at the caravan park as a cleaner, but Daniel lost his job a few months ago when the mechanic closed down, and is now receiving a benefit payment.
I wonder if he’s been tempted to supplement his income by becoming involved in something illegal. If that’s the case, Abbey or Rick may have stumbled upon it. That’s partly what happened with Nicki. Or maybe Abbey was just the messed-up teenager I had diagnosed Nicki as: a young girl who was overwhelmed and snapped. No note has turned up, but there’s nothing to suggest this isn’t a suicide. Although her online interactions appear lighthearted enough, I know full well darkness can be hidden and resilience doesn’t always turn up when you most need it.
I’m trying to summon the particular flavour of complexity that comes with being fifteen. I knew it then and I absolutely know it now: teenagers are terrifyingly impulsive and skilful at making hasty decisions with horrific consequences. I’ve had the misfortune of standing next to many fit, strong young bodies that oozed with health before a misjudged party trick or ambitious sporting feat turned them grey and cold. Beautiful brains broken by reckless drug taking or a thoughtless punch. It’s a cruel truth that vitality gifts the young an otherworldly confidence at the exact moment their emotions rob them of sound judgement. Their desire to punish can be brutal, with suicide, drug use and theft the key weapons in their arsenal. Disappearing into thin air is another appealing option to a teenage brain, a seemingly reasonable reaction to whatever injustice they are facing—but I still doubt that Abbey ran off in the middle of the night with only the clothes on her back.
I flick back to the disturbances at the Clark house. They sound depressingly similar: neighbours called the police, worried about the safety of Dorothy Clark and her children due to the sounds of Daniel’s fury. A local constable was dispatched; upon arrival, an eerily calm Daniel assured them everything was fine.
A traumatised-looking Dot agreed, and the children, including Abbey, remained silent.
This scenario has played out three times since Christmas. I read on and note that Daniel lost his job in mid-December. Idle hands are never good but, in my experience, when they belong to someone with a tendency toward violence, it’s even more important they are occupied.
Ben appears in the doorway, his hair standing on end. ‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hi, baby.’ I pull him into a tight hug. ‘Sleep okay?’
He nods and I make him a bowl of cornflakes that he carefully carries to the coffee table.
My limbs protest as I stretch my arms toward the ceiling. I really need to go for a run, though there’s no way that’s going to happen today.
Mac hovers around me like a caffeine craving I haven’t sated, but since our phone call something has hardened in me, grim and cold. Our relationship has always had an unusual rhythm; his wisdom tilts the balance of power ever so slightly, causing me to overcompensate with youthful passion. But last night’s conversation drifted into unchartered territory—a clear paternal vibe snuck in. I felt his judgement and, perhaps even worse, his doubt in me. I thought the bond we’d formed during the Mara case was indestructible, but maybe something built on so much chaos was destined to crumble. He was my rock during that madness and in its aftermath, but now he feels more like a weight. Our life together feels so far away, as though all that happiness belongs to someone else. I can see how it might be easier to take Ben and just slip away, leave the loose ends loose and simply start over. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.
Scott’s death hits me fresh and hard, and I close my eyes and clutch the back of a chair. He’s gone, gone forever, I remind myself for the hundredth time. Funny how the mere existence of some people can be so reassuring. Scott and I weren’t in contact often—before his illness we only spoke about once or twice a month—but I always knew he was there and I could count on him. That Ben could count on him. With the momentum from the funeral gone, my loneliness is intense.
Taking a deep breath, I unfold the A3 map of Fairhaven that Tran gave me. The Clark house is circled, as is another address where I assume the house party took place on Saturday night. I find the Fletcher brothers’ house too and draw a ring around it. The tiny sliver of bush behind the Clark house that was searched on Sunday afternoon is highlighted, as is a short strip on the two front beaches, the Parrot Bay lookout and the pier. Beyond that, there are acres of wild bushland. Stretches of sand dunes and endless sea.
She could be anywhere.
My thoughts lurch from the case back to Mac. My desire for the past few months to be erased creeps in until I want to scream.
It’s not even seven and I’m exhausted. I fetch some clothes for Ben, who has a shower and then gets dressed while he watches cartoons.
Still wrapped in my towel, I plug my headphones into my laptop and open the files Lane sent me. After a click, a young male voice fills my ears. ‘Hello? This is Rick. Rick Fletcher. Look, I need your help. There’s something I want to talk to you about. To the cops, I mean. It’s, um, important. I should’ve said something today but I guess I just panicked. Can, um, can someone call me back? Or should I come to the station tomorrow morning? Sorry, but look, thanks. Um, you have my number.’
Rick’s voice is unexpectedly androgynous, without the masculine timbre I expected. He sounds scared and desperate. When Tran told me about Rick’s call yesterday, I got the impression that she thought he was calling to confess something, but listening to it now I think his message sounds more like a cry for help.
I load the video file next. A small room comes into focus. Rick is seated at a grey table with two glasses of water on it, and the camera is angled toward him. Alive, he’s as attractive as I suspected.
Tran’s voice comes through the speaker with trademark curtness. ‘As I explained earlier, we are very concerned about the wellbeing of Abbey Clark. Do you have any idea where she is?’
Rick’s arms remain firmly crossed, his eyes on the table. ‘No.’
‘She never mentioned anything to you about leaving town? Even just going away for a few days?’
Rick tosses his neck back to shift his blond hair from his face. ‘She always talked about leaving Fairhaven after school finishes, but that was years away.’
‘Her family say you two have been in a relationship for over a year. How serious was it?’
A flash of malice crosses Rick’s face as he leans forward. ‘I was serious about it. I dunno about her—she’s been hot and cold on me since Christmas.’
‘That must have been frustrating,’ says Tran, attempting empathy.
‘She dumped me on Thursday. I picked her up from school like usual and she just said it was over.’ The veins on Rick’s neck strain as his breath comes out in short puffs. ‘I said “whatever”, I couldn’t be bothered with the whole thing anymore anyway. And I told her I knew she’d been hooking up with someone else.’
‘What made you think that?’
He shrugs. ‘Dunno, just had a feeling.’
‘Did you ask her about it?’
‘Yeah. She said she wasn’t.’
‘Did you argue about it?’
He slumps back in his chair. ‘Not then. I just dropped her at work and went for a surf. I was pissed, but I couldn’t see the point of talking about it.’
‘Did you speak to her after that?’
Pushing his finger along a dark scuff mark on the table, he says, ‘I sent her some texts on Friday. Probably shouldn’t have—I just didn’t get what was going on. She didn’t even give a proper reason for breaking up with me, just said we’d “grown apart” or some shit. She just didn’t want to tell me the truth.’
‘You were angry,’ says Tran.
Rick meets her gaze. ‘Yeah, I thought she was cheating on me. The break-up didn’t make any sense and she was all weird about it.’
‘Was your relationship sexual?’
He laughs nervously and crosses his arms again. ‘I’m not talking to you about that.’
‘Abbey is fifteen,’ continues Tran. ‘She’s still a minor. You’re two years older—if you were sleeping together, technically you were breaking the law.’
Rick’s eyes widen. ‘I never did anything she wasn’t into. I swear.’
I can tell Tran is satisfied she has regained the upper hand. ‘Okay. So she broke up with you on Thursday and you didn’t know why. You sent some texts on Friday. Did she explain herself after that?’
‘Nah, just wrote some shit back to me about us not being right together anymore,’ he mumbles.
‘Did you go to the house party on Firestone Drive on Saturday?’
He nods. ‘Everyone went.’
‘Did you speak with Abbey there?’
‘I got stuck into her. She was all over some guy—dunno who, probably her new boyfriend. I hated that she was acting like that in front of me. Told her I thought she was being a bitch.’
‘You confronted her about the other guy?’
‘Yeah. She said he was hitting on her and she barely knew him. She started saying all this stuff about how sorry she was we’d split, like crying and whatever, and that she felt bad but things had changed.’
‘But you didn’t know what she was referring to?’
Rick’s eyes drop to his hands, which twist in front of him. ‘No idea.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘I hung out with my friends, had more drinks. Then Bel called me, she’s my sister, and said I should come to the beach with a bunch of her friends. I went round the side of the house so I could hear her better, and I saw Abbey leaving.’
‘Around what time was this?’
‘Eleven-thirty, I think.’
‘Where was she going?’
‘Dunno. She just got on her bike and took off.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yeah, she was by herself.’
‘What about the guy she’d been talking to? Any idea where he was?’
Rick shrugs. ‘Reckon he was still inside, but I dunno.’
Tran shifts forward. ‘And Abbey was definitely on her bike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s really important, Rick—I need you to be sure.’
‘I told you, she got her bike from across the road and she left.’
‘Which way?’
‘Back toward town. I figured she was going home. Her dad wouldn’t have let her stay out after midnight. She was barely allowed to do anything—he’s a total prick.’
‘Did you follow her?’
‘No!’
‘Bump into her later?’
Rick’s face flushes. ‘It’s her dad you should be talking to. He’s the psycho. Do you know the kind of shit he does to her and her mum? It’s bullshit.’ Rick pulls up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a purple bruise. ‘Look what he did to me this morning. He’s fucking crazy.’
Tran frowns. ‘Daniel Clark did that?’
Rick runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. ‘Yeah, he came to my house and almost kicked the bloody door down. He kept saying Abbey was there—he searched the whole bloody house even though I told him she wasn’t.’
‘Daniel Clark is certainly part of our ongoing investigation,’ says Tran, ‘but right now we want to speak to you. This would be a very good time to tell us if you know anything that will help us track down Abbey.’
‘I already told you I don’t.’
‘You definitely don’t know where she is?’
‘No!’ His voice breaks. ‘I haven’t seen her since Saturday night.’
‘At the party?’
Rick’s eyes remain downcast. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did you have any theories about someone else she might have been seeing romantically?’
‘Not really. I don’t reckon it was anyone from school, but who knows? Maybe some tourist?’
‘Where do you think Abbey is, Rick?’
When he lifts his head, his eyes are bloodshot, obviously on the brink of tears. ‘Don’t know,’ he croaks, ‘honestly I don’t. But I shouldn’t have fought with her like that.’ He pauses and wipes his eyes, rakes a hand through his hair. ‘I upset her, I know. Maybe it made her do something stupid.’
‘Did she ever give you any reason to think she was suicidal?’
‘Not really, but she wasn’t herself these past few weeks. I guess anything could’ve tipped her over the edge.’ Rick bites his lip. ‘I called her a slut. I was being a prick but she was flirting with that guy and, I dunno, I guess I lost it for a minute.’
A car engine comes to life outside, jerking me back to the present. Rick’s angst swirls around me, his regret palpable. I swallow the last of my cold coffee, trying to shake off the heavy feeling.
I dress quickly and then call the mobile number for Robert Weston that I scrawled in my notebook last night. It rings out and beeps. Unsure if it’s a voicemail recording, I leave a message asking for my call to be returned. Then I glance at the time—we need to get moving. ‘Hey, Ben, brush your teeth and get your shoes and socks on, we’ve got to go.’ I shove the case folder into my bag and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. Neat white shirt and tailored pants. Hair tied back, minimal make-up. A dark circle under each eye and impractical winter boots.
At least I look professional.
Ben turns off the TV as I open the door.
I gasp before I register what I’m seeing, my hand slapping hard against my open mouth.
Curled on the concrete stoop is a large possum lying in a pool of blood, its neck so deeply cut that its head has come away from its body.