Lane’s car isn’t at his home and neither is he, or at least he isn’t responding to our aggressive knocking. We circle the house, a single-storey detached unit with a garden of native grasses. The blinds are drawn; I peer through a crack in the kitchen blind but can’t see anything.
‘I know it’s legally iffy, but I’m going to break in,’ I say to de Luca, who swallows and nods. ‘I don’t want to run all over town if it turns out he’s been here the whole time.’
‘Do you actually think he’s dangerous? Maybe this is just a misunderstanding. He might have found the bike.’
‘Edwina,’ I say.
She nods again, her face all hard lines. ‘I’ll go around the front.’
I pull out my gun and double-check the carport door is locked, aiming my right boot at the door, I kick it hard. The lock caves after three kicks, and the door swings open.
I quickly search the main bedroom, lounge, kitchen, bathroom. A second bedroom door remains shut, and I twist the knob and nudge it open with my elbow. It hits something with a thud and I spring forward.
The curtains are a garish red, bathing the room in orange light. A corduroy beanbag, an old desk and a half-filled bookcase. He’s not here.
I turn to go and stop in my tracks.
Behind the open door is a large wire cage. An animal trap.
I back away, my hand on my throat. Faint tufts of brown and grey fur line the base of the cage. I think about Lane’s hand on my back after I was sick at the caravan park. His happy chatter in the car. His baby face.
I cry out with frustration and fold forward, his betrayal hitting me square in the gut. How could I have missed it? How did we all miss it?
‘Detective!’ De Luca calls from the front lawn.
A strange numbness comes over me. Throwing one last look at the cage, I unlock the front door and stalk out, my gun still in my hand. ‘Do you know where his girlfriend lives?’
De Luca glances back at the house, then falls into step beside me. ‘Elsha? I’m not sure. I know she works at the salon.’
‘I thought she was an artist?’ I say, holstering my gun.
‘She’s also a masseuse,’ says de Luca.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
De Luca calls Lane’s parents on the way, pretending to be an old schoolfriend.
‘Nope, they haven’t heard from him since last week,’ she says, hanging up.
‘He has siblings, right?’
‘I think they live in Melbourne,’ she says distractedly, her brow creasing. ‘I’m just wondering . . .’
‘What?’
She turns to me, her eyes twitching as she talks. ‘It’s just that the last call-out we got for the Clarks, back in early Feb, Lane insisted on going. The call came in just as he was about to finish his shift. I said I’d go but he said he would do it and write up the report the next day.’
I feel her gaze on me as I circle the roundabout that leads into the main street.
‘He wanted to see her,’ she says. ‘Abbey.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’
‘They were together?’
‘Something was going on between them.’
De Luca cups a hand over her mouth, her long fingers reaching to the edge of her face. ‘She was only fifteen. Do you think they were . . . ?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, pulling the handbrake into position. ‘Come on.’
The sickly-sweet scent of vanilla envelops us as we step into the salon. Tara is blow-drying a brand-new bob and jiggles her elbow in greeting, though annoyance flashes in her eyes. ‘Give me a tick!’ she calls out.
De Luca and I shift over to the little waiting area, and I scan the rows of shiny products lining the wall and wonder what the hell they’re all for.
Next to me, de Luca is kneading her forehead with her hands. ‘Maybe he was just trying to help her somehow?’ Her voice is thick with emotion and her expression is one I’m familiar with: denial mixed with the knowledge that something is very wrong. ‘Should we call Tommy? He might be able to explain all this.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I’m sure he’ll hear the alerts but I don’t want to engage him in this.’
The buzz of the hairdryer ceases and other sounds come to the fore: the snip of scissors, the rip as wax is wrenched from skin, and the low hum of a neon light being held over a woman’s foil-wrapped fingernails. Tara applies a liberal dose of spray to the dried hair before grabbing a mirror to display the reverse view.
After waving her customer off at the counter, she comes over to us. ‘Sorry!’ she says, her arms folded. ‘It’s been a bit busy today, which is a good thing ’cause earlier in the week was so quiet. Kate Morse was saying that a few caravan park bookings pulled out.’ Tara’s face puckers slightly and she glares at me. ‘I guess some of the recent events have scared people off.’ She looks past us to the mirror and adjusts her hair before smoothing her fingers along her jawbone to blend in a line of make-up.
‘Tara, have you seen Constable Lane today?’
‘No, but he did call earlier. He was looking for Elsha and I told him she was with a client.’
‘What time did he call?’
‘Just before nine, I think.’
The bell above the door tinkles, announcing the arrival of a sunburned woman. Tara flashes her a smile then strains her neck into the salon, directing one of the girls to the front counter with her eyes.
‘And you haven’t heard from him since?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Tara, getting increasingly frustrated. The bell above the door sounds again, and she whips her head around. ‘But this lovely lady might have.’
The girl who was at the pub with Lane on Monday night is standing next to the counter. Today her dreadlocks are wrapped around her head like a turban, and silver chains circle both ankles and hang at various lengths around her neck. When she sees me she stops short and looks wary. Then she props a small canvas against the front counter; the painting is a burst of colour, an abstract flower set against a magenta background, its loose silver seeds trailing off the side.
‘Elsha,’ I say, ‘have you spoken to Kai Lane this morning?’
A sharp chemical scent now fills the salon, making my eyes start to water.
‘Not since he left my house,’ says Elsha. ‘He tried to call me but I was with clients. I tried to call him back but his phone is off.’
‘He’s your boyfriend, right?’ I say.
She nods uncertainly. ‘Yes. Only for a few months—we met in November.’
‘You said you saw him this morning?’
‘Yes, he stayed at my place last night. Went straight to work.’ She pulls a filigree ring off her finger before sliding it on again, and tilts her chin at me defiantly. ‘He woke up when you called him to come in early again. He didn’t sleep well last night—he was very tired. Why do you ask?’ Elsha’s disdain for me is obvious, and I wonder what kind of picture Lane has been painting for her.
‘How has Kai seemed lately?’
‘He’s been pretty stressed. I haven’t actually seen him that much this week. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and I get up early to paint, so . . .’
‘Were you together last Saturday night?’
‘Um, no. He was working a late shift and he went back to his place.’
‘What about on Monday morning? Was he with you before he went to work?’
She crosses her arms defensively. ‘I’m not sure. I think so.’ Her eyes widen suddenly. ‘Yes, yes, he was. He stayed at my place on Sunday after the search for that missing girl.’
‘What time did he leave on Monday morning?’
‘It was early,’ she says, wary again. ‘But I’m not sure exactly. I went to the beach to paint.’ She takes a deep breath and turns to de Luca. ‘Can you please tell me what’s going on?’
I go to the front desk and scribble my number and email address on the back of a price menu. ‘We’re trying to find him,’ I say. ‘Do you live alone?’
She nods.
‘Don’t go home after work. Go to the pub or a restaurant, okay? Maybe stay with a friend tonight—can you do that?’
She nods again.‘Why, what’s he done?’ she says sharply, her voice rising.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say gently. ‘We’re just a bit worried—he didn’t seem well today, and we need to ask him about something important.’
She blinks, Bambi-like. ‘Elsha. I think Kai might contact you, and it’s really important you call me the second you hear from him.’