I grab a plastic cup of fruit salad from the supermarket’s Fresh 2 Go section and join Lane on the park bench across the road. He wolfs down a sweaty sausage roll smeared with sauce from the petrol station, following this up with swigs of chocolate milk. He’s gone very quiet and I suspect the intensity of our investigations is starting to take its toll. I pick unenthusiastically at the cubes of fruit before replacing the lid and returning the missed call from the station.
Noah answers. ‘Hi, Detective Woodstock. I was just passing on a message. Someone from the forensics team in Byron called to say nothing turned up on the possum. Does that make sense?’
I had all but forgotten about the possum but now I picture someone placing the bloody carcass outside our door, metres from my sleeping son, and feel a surge of anger. ‘Yes, and thanks for passing on the message. Is everything else going okay?’
‘All good here. There have been quite a few calls about the Fletcher murder but I don’t think there’s much that’ll be useful for you. Most callers have just wanted to talk about when they last saw Rick or how scared they are that something like this might happen again. None of the callers so far have information about the attack.’
‘Okay, well, thanks for holding the fort. I’ll see you later.’
I stretch out my legs as I try to pin down the theory that’s been rattling around in my mind following our conversation with Erin and my interview with Freya.
Lane’s phone rings and he wanders off, standing under the shade of a huge gum. I call Tran. Her greeting is frosty but I just launch into my updates, trying to paper over the awkwardness I feel after hanging up on her yesterday.
‘The thing is, if Rick and Aiden were dealing, I would have expected to find something at the house. Anyway, we’re seeing their parents shortly, so we’ll question them about it too. If the caravan park owner is right about them being involved in drugs, maybe they know more than they’re letting on.’
‘Make sure you’re very careful, Gemma,’ says Tran curtly. ‘They have just lost their son.’
‘Of course.’
‘How did you go with Daniel’s car?’
‘He had no issue with it being searched,’ I say. ‘We won’t get anything official back until next week but the techs say there wasn’t any obvious blood residue or evidence of a recent clean.’
‘I guess that would have been asking too much,’ says Tran with a sigh.
‘Nothing came back on the possum either,’ I say.
‘I guess it would have been a long shot. Either way, I’m glad we have you at the Gordons’ house.’ She pauses. ‘Gemma?’ she says finally, surprising me by sounding a little nervous.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Why?’
‘I spoke to Tommy earlier. He said he thought you were a bit overwhelmed.’
‘I’m not,’ I say, my chest compressing. ‘I work cases like this all the time.’
‘I know how experienced you are, of course, but we need real focus on this. I’ve been made aware of your recent circumstances, and I have to say it has me a bit worried about your current ability to lead something like this properly.’
I grip the phone so hard my knuckles crack. ‘Tommy needs to mind his own business. He’s dosed up on so many painkillers he wouldn’t have a clue what’s going on.’ I know I sound petulant but I can’t help it, the fury pouring from my mouth like lava. ‘How dare he come running to you like a schoolkid. That is such bullshit.’
‘He’s just concerned,’ says Tran, without a hint of emotion.
‘Concerned my arse,’ I retort. ‘I can’t believe you’re not seeing this for what it is.’
‘I can only go on what I’m being told, Gemma, and Tommy’s concerned.’ Tran sounds almost evangelical. ‘And he obviously has a vested interest in his squad. I have no doubt he’s a bit put out with you replacing him on two of the biggest cases to hit the town in years, but he’s well respected and has a lot of local knowledge. I’d be using him as much as you can.’
It’s all I can do not to throw my phone onto the road.
Lane returns, plonking himself back down on the bench. I tell Tran that I will speak to her later and end the call. I turn to Lane, seething while trying to hide it. ‘Is everything alright?’ I ask, noticing his expression.
‘I got a text back from one of the Brits, William Mayne. I guess he’s the one the caravan park staff reported to Kate for taking those videos. He said he and his mates are out on one of the fishing trawlers and barely have reception. They are back late tonight. He confirmed that Robert Weston is their mate and that he was staying with them, but he left for Sydney on Monday, so at least we know it’s the same person. I said they need to be at the caravan park at nine tomorrow morning to meet with us. That will work, won’t it?’
I sigh. ‘I guess it will have to.’ I press my fingers into my temples. ‘Actually, that’s good. I’ll try to speak to Dot before that. Her shift at the caravan park starts at 8 am.’
‘Do you give much weight to what Erin said?’ Lane ventures. ‘You know, about seeing Abbey near the police station? It’s not very conclusive—she could have been doing anything.’
‘It’s certainly not hard evidence, but maybe that’s what Saturday night was actually about. Maybe Abbey was planning on coming to you for help and then chickened out at the last minute and made up the story about the stolen bike?’
Lane looks doubtful. ‘I guess it’s possible but she seemed pretty genuine to me.’
I sigh again. ‘She probably was. It’s just, that bloody bike really bothers me. It doesn’t make sense. Plus, if Freya’s right and something did upset Abbey recently, she might have had a reason to go to the police. I wonder what it was.’ I look back over at the supermarket. ‘Maybe a customer said something, or Weston was hassling her.’ I shake my head. ‘But then why would she write back to him? That was only last week.’
Lane exhales heavily. ‘I reckon it was probably just her dad. He was definitely getting worse and maybe she didn’t want to go home after the fight they had. I’m starting to think she just hitchhiked out of town or something.’
‘That’s possible.’
Lane’s hands have curled into fists but I don’t think he’s noticed.
We all find this hard, our inability to protect the most vulnerable against such a blatant abuse of power. The betrayal the victims feel is extended to many cops, they end up feeling betrayed by the whole system. I certainly know I have felt this way over the years.
I clear my throat. ‘You attended the last two calls out there, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. It’s such bullshit. How he can act like that and no one can do anything about it.’
‘I know,’ I say with a grimace. ‘Did Abbey ever try to talk to you about what was going on?’
His eyes go to his shoes. ‘Not really. It was obvious she was worried about her mum and her brothers. I think that’s why she never said anything—she was terrified of what Daniel might do to Dot and the kids. She basically had to be the adult. It was such a mess.’
‘Situations like that are never easy.’
We sit in silence for a few moments. On the nearby phone booth the poster with Abbey’s smiling face flaps in the breeze, and we both stare at it.
I check the time and heave myself to my feet. ‘Let’s go. We need to get back to the station to meet the Fletchers.’
Georgina and Ian Fletcher are much younger than I expected and very stylish in a casual homemade way. Ian’s blond hair is long like Rick’s, and Georgina wouldn’t look out of place at Woodstock. Under different circumstances I suspect they’d be an exceptionally attractive couple, but their grief has zapped their tans and reduced them to barely coherent mumbling and bouts of sobbing.
‘We blame ourselves,’ says Georgina, one hand clutching her husband’s and the other gripped around her throat. ‘We shouldn’t have let them live by themselves but, well . . .’ She trails off and looks at Ian.
‘Aiden’s twenty,’ he says, ‘and Rick was almost eighteen.’ His voice cracks. ‘We trust our boys but I guess we never thought about anyone hurting them, not like this.’
The Fletchers both start sobbing, and I wait for them to calm before I coax out more details about Rick and Aiden.
‘We last saw both boys two Sundays ago—all the kids come to lunch on Sunday,’ says Georgina. ‘Sometimes they bring a friend or a girlfriend or whatever but they rarely miss it.’ She tugs on the hem of her skirt. ‘Aiden has been making it less lately because of work, but the other two always come.’
‘We didn’t meet last Sunday,’ adds Ian, ‘because of Abbey.’
‘Was Rick the one to inform you about that?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Georgina, ‘Rick called us after her father came to his house. He was very worried about her but I think he hoped she’d just gone to stay at a friend’s for a while.’
‘Did Abbey ever come to your family lunches?’
Georgina blinks and they both nod.
‘Sometimes,’ she says. ‘Daniel hated her spending time with Rick, which really upset him.’
‘I knew Daniel in high school,’ Ian says. ‘I never liked him.’ He presses a fist to his eye. ‘If I’m honest I didn’t like Rick having anything to do with him—but Abbey was a lovely girl. Rick was wild about her.’
‘I felt sorry for Abbey,’ says Georgina, starting to cry again, ‘and I know people are saying Rick did something to her, and that’s why she’s missing, but it’s not true. He adored her.’
I can already tell that Rick’s parents aren’t going to provide us with a breakthrough. They clearly loved their son and saw him frequently, but their relationship existed at a surface level; their view of him seems naive and slightly romanticised. At least they acknowledge that despite Rick being bright, he struggled with school.
‘We were so pleased when he decided to start the landscaping business,’ Georgina tells us. ‘He was so entrepreneurial, we knew he would do so well.’
‘Do you have any idea where Aiden is, Mr Fletcher?’
‘No idea,’ says Ian. ‘It’s so unlike him to take off like that, but he and Rick were so close. He’s in shock.’
‘Mrs Fletcher?’
‘No.’ She pulls her left earring down, stretching her earlobe grotesquely. ‘I’m so worried about him.’ Her face collapses. ‘Both my boys are gone.’
‘Aiden sleeps in his van sometimes,’ adds Ian. ‘You know, on camping trips and things like that. He can be a bit of a free spirit. I never used to worry about it, and now everything seems so dangerous.’
‘We’re doing all we can to track him down, but if you think of anywhere he might be or someone he might be with, please let us know. We think he might have information that will help us find out who attacked Rick.’
‘I’m sure he would have said if he knew anything,’ whispers Georgina, then navigates another bout of grief. They are clearly devastated but I detect a caution that I can’t quite place. It reminds me of what Kate said about them.
‘We’d like to conduct a search of your property,’ I say bluntly.
They both visibly tense.
‘Why?’ says Ian.
‘Just to rule a few things out. We’ve searched Rick and Aiden’s place but there might be other clues at your property. I’m sure you’re happy to do anything you can to help us find Abbey and get justice for Rick.’
‘When?’ asks Georgina, an edge to her voice.
‘Straight away. A team will most likely be sent out there this afternoon, if that’s okay.’
Still gripping each other’s hands, they fall into silence.
‘That’s fine,’ says Ian softly.
I exchange a glance with Lane. ‘We have everything we need for now,’ I say. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
They stagger to their feet, Ian’s arm around Georgina’s waifish waist. She doesn’t look much older than her sons. ‘The other cop,’ she pauses to swallow, ‘said they are doing the autopsy today.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say gently.
‘Oh god. I can’t bear it. When you have a baby, you just never think . . . I mean, you worry of course, but you never think this.’
‘No.’ Suddenly her agony is unbearable to me. ‘I’m so sorry about Rick.’
Lane walks them out and I sink into my chair, utterly drained. Georgina is right: you never associate that kind of pain with your child, but from the moment of their birth, sometimes from their conception, you are exposed—vulnerable to the soul-destroying grief that only their absence can create.
Lane returns, frowning. ‘They’re hiding something.’
‘I agree. And so is Aiden, wherever he is.’
‘I’ll organise the search of their property.’ Lane trots off to his desk. I can hear Noah on the phone in the front room and, underneath that, the cicadas. The beige fan in the corner circles drunkenly, ruffling the plastic bin liner every time it reaches its left rotation.
I watch the recording of Rick’s interview again. Then, tipping my head from side to side, I stretch my aching neck. All my instincts tell me Rick lied about not seeing Abbey again after the party.
‘Hey,’ says Lane, eyes on his screen, ‘I’m going through all of Robert Weston’s Facebook messages. Last year it looks like he messaged two girls he didn’t know, just like he did with Abbey.’
I read over Lane’s shoulder. The messages are almost identical to the ones I read the other night: light-hearted declarations of attraction based on a chance meeting.
‘He seems to have quite the script,’ I say. ‘Keep going through his accounts. See if you can work out where he is.’
Lane nods. ‘It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?’
I press my lips together. ‘I’m not sure yet, but considering he left town on Monday, it doesn’t look good.’
‘And then Aiden bailed on Tuesday.’
‘I know.’ I rub my eyes. ‘I’m starting to wonder about Aiden’s alibi.’
‘It’s pretty solid,’ says Lane doubtfully.
‘The alibi for his van certainly is—we know it went in and out of Sydney because of the toll points, but what if he wasn’t driving it? What if he was in Fairhaven the whole time?’
‘Then who was driving his van?’
‘No idea,’ I say, ‘but I think we need to dig into it a bit further. Maybe the brothers weren’t as close as they seemed.’ I think back to the Nicki Mara case and my calls with her father, Lucas. His grief was real but it hid the truth, the biggest clue of all: his role in her disappearance. Maybe Aiden Fletcher is the same?
‘And if he wasn’t in Sydney, there’s a chance he was here on Saturday night too,’ I add.
‘His credit card was used to buy some food in Sydney,’ Lane reminds me. ‘And petrol.’
‘I know, and this might go nowhere, but see if you can pull any CCTV from the purchase times. I’d much rather be sure he wasn’t here than assume he wasn’t.’
Lane nods and turns back to his computer.
I have a quick look at Aiden Fletcher’s Facebook and Instagram pages as well as his emails. He is barely active online; occasionally he posts surfing shots and sporadic news articles about climate change. As I relisten to the voice message Rick left the police on Sunday night, I remember Aiden saying he spoke to Rick that afternoon after Daniel had paid him a visit.
I pull up Aiden’s phone records. ‘Was there a landline at the brothers’ house?’ I ask Lane. ‘Maybe a number registered in the parents’ name?’
‘What?’ says Lane, eyes glued to Robert Weston’s online world. ‘Ah, no—no landline.’
‘Well, then Aiden lied.’
‘About what?’
‘Aiden said he spoke to Rick on Sunday about Daniel Clark, but there was no call between the two of them.’ I glance back down at the rows of calls and texts. ‘At least not on their mobiles. According to this, they hadn’t spoken for over a week.’
Lane turns around. ‘That’s weird.’
It all comes together in my mind. ‘I think they were using burner phones. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Their official call logs are too lean and too inconsistent. For brothers who were allegedly so close, they weren’t in touch much based on these records.’ I drum my fingers on the desk, thinking out loud. ‘So why be off the grid? Drugs? Theft? Something else? Rick and Aiden might have got in over their heads on some scheme. Abbey might have been collateral damage.’
Lane nods slowly. ‘Tommy reckons Daniel was the one who attacked Rick.’
‘You’ve been talking to Tommy about the case?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.
‘Not really,’ Lane stammers. ‘I just wanted to check in on him, you know, make sure he was doing okay, and we had a quick chat about it then.’
Frustration ripples through me but I can’t berate Lane without seeming completely childish. I look back at the constellation of information on the case board. ‘Maybe Rick knew his drug contacts had taken Abbey’s bike from the party, and that’s why he lied about seeing her leave on it.’
Lane stops to think about it. ‘Yeah, that works. They could have been following her when she went to the station.’ He pauses again. ‘And when she left.’
I prod my foot at the carpet as panic seizes me. God, I just want to find her. The thought of another horrible ending is unbearable. Worse again is the thought of leaving here with no answers.
‘I still don’t get why she’d turn down a lift home in the middle of the night,’ I say. ‘She must have been planning to go somewhere she didn’t want you to know about.’
The office door swings open, and de Luca and Grange walk in. They bring death with them: the harsh scent of chemicals and the indefinable fragrance that’s unique to a morgue.
I point to the meeting room. ‘Great, you’re back. Let’s all meet in, say, five minutes? We’ve got a bit to fill you in on.’
They don’t move.
‘What’s going on? Did something happen at the autopsy?’
‘The footage from the council came in while we were driving back,’ says de Luca.
‘Finally,’ I say. ‘Have you looked at any of it yet?’
‘Yes.’ Grange’s Adam’s apple bulges from his neck. ‘She’s on it. Abbey.’