‘You gotta be kidding me.’
A moment earlier I’d been a kestrel hovering in anticipation. I was in my kitchen. George had rung from a public phone somewhere. I’d geared myself for what he was about to tell me, for the back slaps, the praise but his words were still stumbling in my brain, like players after Mad Monday. How was it possible?
‘No blood?’
‘None.’
Maybe the receipts I took had tipped Crossland off and before the police arrived he’d cleaned up.
‘He must have bleached it.’
‘No, the car lit up for our guys too.’
After my visit to Crossland’s vehicle I’d made contact with George and given him a heads up. He’d been as excited as me. Task force cops had turned up the next day at the building site Crossland was working on and asked if they could test his car. They had a warrant in train anyway but wanted to check his reaction. Fine, he’d told them. But now I was confused.
George said, ‘You mentioned him smoking joints in his car down the beach.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you smell them? Did he have the windows down?’
‘No, he’s not stupid. I’ve got these great infra-red binocs. I saw clear as day.’
George explained patiently, ‘People smoking in a confined space like a car can give a false reading on the luminol test. It’s the tobacco or something.’
He obviously picked up on my silence. ‘Mate, don’t feel bad, we’ve had a dozen of these kind of false dawns.’
‘It could still be him. He could have used another vehicle.’
‘He won’t be off the radar any time soon.’ He added, ‘I got the chop last night. I’m off the case.’
‘Because of Crossland?’
‘No. I told you it was already in train.’
I felt hollow. I’d let him down. ‘I can’t have helped.’
‘It made no difference at all. They’re giving me three weeks break then I’m off to Kalgoorlie.’
‘Who’s taking over?’
‘Dean Tregilgas. He’s the wonder boy out of Fraudy. He’s cracked some big cases. He’s smart but thinks he knows it all. If you’re ever in Kal …’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
I hung up, flatter than a farmer’s vowel. I was sorry for George and for myself too. He’d been my conduit into the case. I didn’t want to let go of Crossland. Okay, it would have been hard for him to get Jessica but not impossible. He could have left Freo in his own car, had another standing by in Claremont. He could have had an accomplice. Could have, might have, might not have: not a place that was going to prove productive.
Tacich’s removal as task force head was announced two days later. There was talk of ‘fresh eyes’ and the investigation moving into a ‘new phase’. He was perfunctorily thanked by the Pommy Commissioner who was keen to put a positive spin on Inspector Tregilgas and his ‘elite crime solving capability’. The next day Gerry O’Grady called me to inform me that Tregilgas had made an introductory phone call to him and Michelle O’Grady in which he suggested they might be wasting good money on a private detective.
‘Look, I have no problem if you think I’m not achieving anything here.’
‘No, we want you to keep going.’
I had to be honest with him. I explained the police cooperation I got from here on might be much more limited.
‘That doesn’t matter. We want you to keep looking. That’s what we told Tregilgas.’
I thanked him for the vote of confidence but in truth I had a queasiness in my stomach that I was wasting everybody’s time. Much as I might not wish to, I figured I had better try and make contact with Tregilgas. I dug out the number of the spin doctor, Unwin.
‘Yes, Lane.’ As pompous as ever.
I explained that I did not want Tacich’s leaving to alter the relationship between the police and my investigation.
‘There is no relationship. We were merely offering a courtesy to you on the instructions of the task force commander.’ The past tense had crept in like an intruder with a tomahawk. I asked if he might pass on my wish to meet with Tregilgas.
‘He’s a very busy man. But I will pass on your request.’
He must not have been that busy because my phone rang about forty minutes later.
‘Inspector Dean Tregilgas. You wanted to speak with me?’
I thanked him for his prompt call knowing how busy he was.
‘Exactly, I am busy, so I’ll be blunt. Your help is not needed by this task force. You wasted time and resources on the Crossland business and I have suspicions as to how you obtained that information. We will continue to pass information direct to the O’Gradys as we see fit and proper. What they do with it is up to them.’
‘So if I were to find anything …’
‘You’re not going to. The world has moved on. Is that all?’
‘Good luck, Inspector.’
It could have gone better. Question was, could it have gone worse? I was on my own from here on in. That much was clear.
By Grace’s second birthday I’d achieved bugger all. Nor did I have any instinct that it might be about to change. After the Tregilgas call I’d determined to take a look at the two prime persons of interest: the teacher, Bontillo, and the roadie, Party Pig. They were about as different as you could get. If Bontillo, the self-confessed gay teacher, was responsible he would have used very different tactics to the roadie. He would have engaged the girls in conversation, acted solicitous of their welfare, offered a lift. In the case of Jessica, alerted to a predator, he might have been insistent: you can’t wait around here, I’m safe, I bat for the other team. Party Pig Partigan on the other hand would have relied on being part of the furniture: a guy loading the band truck, you walk past him without looking. The police report said Partigan had called the information line around a week after Emily had disappeared. They had paid a visit to Rock Solid, the sound company that owned the PA and truck and employed Partigan. Party Pig claimed he simply didn’t hear anything about Emily’s disappearance until the next gig at The Sheaf. He thought about what he’d seen and told the police right away.
But the truck had not been tested until the Wednesday after Caitlin went missing. No blood, no DNA matching the girls but by then various crew had been traipsing through loading and unloading. The police found it suspicious Partigan had cleaned his car on the Sunday afternoon after Caitlin went missing. The car had been parked at the Osborne Park factory where Rock Solid was located and Partigan used it to get to and from work. The roadie claimed he had been thinking of selling the car and had vacuumed it and cleaned it for that purpose. He said he had not seen Caitlin at all on the night she had disappeared, and did not even recognise her by sight. When asked by the police why he had not gone ahead and put the car up for sale, Partigan replied he changed his mind.
I had a few gay male friends, some I’d made way back on the Gruesome case. I asked those I was closest to for help, told them I needed information on Ian Bontillo: people who knew him, ex-lovers, whatever. Was he bi? Did he like rough trade? One of my contacts, a PR guy, came good with ‘Simon’, a guy who had spent some time with Bontillo and was prepared to sit down. We met at a café in Subiaco, a suburb one grade down from Dalkeith with its company directors and old money. There were plenty of BMWs to be found in Subi but it tended to be the domicile of realtors, accountants, successful small-business people, with more than a few doctors from the nearby hospitals. Simon was younger than me and wore an open-neck white shirt better than I could. He lay back in his chair with his legs casually crossed in a manner that suggested tanning and powerboats. His loafers were elegant and at home in the aroma of fresh coffee. We made a little small talk. I knew he was in the IT business and was originally from Sydney. This was a big advantage for me. Perth was a village and those who had grown up here never wanted to get the elders and witchdoctors offside. He knew I was a private detective but I’d promised a hundred dollars for his time.
‘You were Ian Bontillo’s boyfriend, is that right?’
‘Not exactly boyfriend.’
‘You were intimate for a time?’
‘Yes. Is this about those girls? Are you working for a newspaper or something?’ Far from being concerned, his eyes twinkled.
‘Which girls?’
‘Those three girls that are missing. Ian taught them all. The police spent ages interviewing him. I thought that’s what this was about.’
‘It might be. I can’t tell you who my client is but I absolutely guarantee you anonymity.’
He waved that away.
‘How long have you known Ian for?’ I asked.
Simon had seen him at clubs going back eighteen months. They’d hooked up between the previous November and carried on casually till around April.
‘Does he have any attraction to women that you are aware of?’
Simon smiled and sipped his coffee. ‘He likes dresses but his tastes are strictly left fork.’
‘Did he ever mention the girls to you?’
‘He could hardly avoid it. The cops came to see him after the second girl disappeared.’
‘How would you characterise his reaction?’
‘He was upset. He remembered the girls, like, not that well but a bit. He wanted to help however he could. Ian’s a nice guy. Can be a bit of a nanna but he hasn’t got a malicious bone in his body.’
‘Not misogynistic in any way?’
A pause. ‘Well, a couple of times the kids got to him. Fooling around, you know. He said, “I could strangle those little bitches” – but it was just a teacher blowing off steam, seriously. He wouldn’t hurt a fly: I know. I’ve seen him shoo them out windows.’
‘What’s his relationship with his family, any idea?’
‘He didn’t talk about them much. I got the impression there was some problem between him and his mum over him being a poof. He wouldn’t be the first. They live in Melbourne somewhere.’
‘Did you ever engage in, or did he ever suggest anything … bondage ..?’
‘Who hasn’t?’
A cheeky grin. Then he rocked forward, looked me in the eye.
‘I don’t know your sexual history but let’s put it this way: nothing we did or he suggested was that far off the path that it made me think he’d hurt those girls. If you’re trying to paint him as a psycho-killer, forget it.’
Simon was prepared to give me some details of their sex games. The most extreme involved bondage, candle wax, pinching. No cutting, slapping, threatening, nothing that made Simon feel Bontillo had changed when in the moment.
‘Play acting, games really, that’s all.’
I pushed on for another forty minutes but wasn’t getting any more juice. ‘When the third girl disappeared –’
He cut me off. ‘We’d run our course by then. I mean we weren’t boyfriends anyway. But I haven’t seen him around. I’m guessing it would have really knocked Ian hard.’
‘You didn’t call him?’
He shifted uneasily. ‘I didn’t want him to try and start anything up again. I broke it up between us, whatever there was. I mean, I didn’t feel anything for Ian, to me it was casual. He, I think, wanted something more but to be honest he’s a bit … boring for me, and I don’t want to run him down, because he’s a perfectly nice guy. He’s not your guy.’
‘Please, come in.’
Ian Bontillo was shorter than me, around five-nine, fair and slim, though his hips were like a luncheon drinks bill – larger than you expected when you took a close look. He ushered me into his flat, a large art-deco number in a Swanbourne side street south of the railway line. Simon had spoken in his favour but I wanted to meet the man myself. I called him, explained who I was and how I was working for the O’Gradys. When I asked if I might visit him he’d suggested a Saturday afternoon. So here I was, sinking into a ’50s armchair replete with a rest where civilised folk would perch a martini on a coaster while listening to big band albums. He sat on the sofa opposite. Light spread in under the blind, highlighted his hair, traces of red. Behind him the lower half of a bronze female nude balanced balls on the mantelpiece. Given the recent Olympics, my mind went that way and suggested she came into being around the time Jesse Owens was tormenting Hitler. No coffee on offer. Nonetheless, I thanked him for seeing me.
‘I feel for the parents. I didn’t know them. But, anything I can do.’ There was a pause, he wriggled ever so slightly. ‘Obviously I’m somebody the police are going to look at.’
I was relieved he’d got straight down to it. ‘You taught all three girls?’
‘I didn’t abduct them. I’m gay by the way.’
I raised an eyebrow, as if that might have escaped my attention. ‘Please, don’t take this personally,’ I said, ‘but it would be great if I could ask you some questions. I’m sure the police have done this but Caitlin’s parents feel they are in the dark.’
‘I barely remember Caitlin. I did not abduct her.’
I nodded solicitously but went on my way regardless. ‘I’ve spoken to Beth Springer, asked if it was alright to interview staff. She said it was fine if they were willing.’
Beth Springer was headmistress of St Therese’s and what I was saying was the truth. I did not want Ian Bontillo thinking he was a prime suspect, and I’d already had a chat with an English teacher, Jenny Clohessy, the only other teacher as it turned out who had taught all three girls, though several other staff had held tenure across the girls’ student years. They could wait.
‘So, is it okay to proceed?’
He opened his palms as if to say ‘sure’. I produced a mini tape-recorder.
‘Do you mind if I record us? I never keep up if I’m writing.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Please don’t think I’m targeting you in any way other than to establish facts. The questions I ask you will be the same as I asked Jenny Clohessy.’
‘You’ve spoken to Jenny?’
‘Yes. Do you remember the girls well?’
He was relaxing slightly now, edging back more comfortably into his seat. ‘The only one I remember very well is Jessica. She was one of the leads in Guys and Dolls that I did as the school play. She was a natural. Emily I don’t recall very well. I think she did drama only for a couple of years and she wasn’t in the passionate core group of kids you tend to find. Caitlin … I said I hardly remembered her, that’s not accurate, I meant, when it first happened I couldn’t place her. But then I saw her photo and of course I remembered her. She was one of those kids who … drama wasn’t her thing especially but she’d put up her hand to be a spear holder.’
‘Do you recall any time or instance the three girls might have been together?’
He was shaking his head. ‘I’ve thought about that. Jessica was finishing when Emily was starting. I can’t think of anything.’
We talked about the girls for a good half-hour, their personalities, friends.
‘Did you ever see any of the girls outside school?’
‘Jessica, who I had most to do with. I saw her up the shops a couple of times. Once when she was at uni, then a few months ago we chatted briefly. She was in the city, law … no stockbroking.’
‘What about other staff at school. Academic or cleaners, anyone you thought …?’ I left it to him to fill in the gap.
‘No. I can’t believe it of anybody. Look, whoever did this, I don’t think they give off the vibe, they must fit in.’
‘I know the police would have asked you this but I have no access to their material …’ okay that was a lie, ‘… could you tell me where you were when each of the girls went missing? You know I need to ask this.’
‘Emily went missing in October. I was at the school preparing for the school play, which we always do in November. I worked there with one of the music teachers who was MD and one of my set designers, our tech teacher, till about eleven. They left. I stayed for a while, maybe forty minutes, then came back here to bed. That Saturday after Australia Day when Caitlin disappeared, I was at my sister’s for a party. Everybody except her and me flaked about midnight. I stayed and helped her clean up till around two. The night Jessica disappeared, that was a Friday. I was worn out. I came back here, cooked myself a meal, surfed the net, watched TV. My team St Kilda was playing Collingwood. We lost.’
‘St Kilda,’ I said with sympathy.
‘Born in nineteen sixty-six.’ Chagrin is the word I think that describes how he said it. The Saints had won one premiership in their history, and that by the lowest possible margin, one point, back in ’66. Maybe it was a calculated tactic on his part to win me over. If so, it worked pretty well. One minute I’m stalking him like he’s a duplicitous monster, next it’s like he’s a dolphin I’m trying to protect from ritual slaughter. I delved into his background. He’d wanted to be an actor but realised early on he wouldn’t be elite enough to crack the big companies so he pursued teaching. He’d come to Perth in ’91, having landed the job at St Therese’s.
By the time I’d left I was no wiser on what had happened to Caitlin. Did I think it was Bontillo? I never rule anything out, but no. Quite apart from the St Kilda thing and the gay thing, and the fact he was alibied, I just didn’t get a sense that this guy was anything more than a coincidence. Frankly, Jenny Clohessy was scarier. If she’d have been teaching me English I would have read Jane Austen cover to cover. She was alibied, so was her husband and her seventeen-year-old son; hey, I’m thorough if nothing else.
While checking up on the designated persons of interest was a main focus, it wasn’t my only line of investigation. I was especially interested in prior criminal or deviant behaviour: rape, sexual assault of course, but even snowdropping and flashing. Too often people dismiss some teenage kid stealing his neighbour’s panties off the line as nothing more than a quirk. To me it was a big warning arrow – cliff edge approaching – and over that edge lay violent behaviour spurred on by long-held sexual fantasies. Flashing, even more so. Some creep hangs out in the sandhills and bares his wares at a passer-by, one day he’s going to go further. The task force was onto it too. There were twenty plus convictions related to these more minor crimes, going back three years. Thing was, there’d be double that number unreported, and as many unsolved. Also with this kind of behaviour you might have to go back ten years. The serious sexual assaults and rapes were well documented. Thankfully, over the last three years there’d only been one serial rapist and he’d been caught and was behind bars. The task force had done a good job of listing all those convicted of serious sex crimes, and anything related to deprivation of liberty, going back thirty years, not just in WA but nationally. They had clearly spent a lot of hours sifting through each and every entry but none of those previously convicted had stood up as a strong suspect. I ran through the list of names and their crimes, wishing I could transport them to an island and nuke it. This was not going to be a line of inquiry I could fruitfully pursue, too much ground to cover, too many resources needed and much better left to the task force.
But it was while trawling through unsolved rape cases that I finally felt a jolt.
Back in January ’98, Carmel Younger, a twenty-two-year-old sales assistant, was walking past Karrakatta Cemetery around 2.00 in the morning when she was grabbed from behind, dragged into a dark part of the cemetery and raped. Younger had been drinking from late afternoon at the Cottesloe Hotel until about 11.00 pm. She had then cadged a lift to Shenton Park with some of her fellow drinkers where an impromptu party had ensued. About 1.40 in the morning, alcohol affected, she had decided to walk the five kilometres to her home in Nedlands. The people who had given her a lift to the party were too drunk to drive and she had thought she’d probably hail a taxi if she saw one but she wasn’t especially concerned. She didn’t own a car herself and often walked to the beach and back. After crossing Aberdare Road, the city side of the cemetery, she walked down the hill past the cemetery and had traversed about a quarter of the block to the next cross-street, Loch Street, when she suddenly felt herself lifted up in the air and carried away from the road into the cemetery itself. A hand clamped her mouth, an arm pinned her right arm. It was too dark to see her attacker’s features but she saw the knife he brandished under her eye before turning her over, pulling down her pants and taking her from behind. Too terrified to scream, she had half expected her throat to be cut. Even after her attacker had satisfied himself she expected the blade and remained kneeling, sobbing to herself. She felt him move back but that was all. After what might have been a minute or two she gathered the courage to turn around but there was nobody in sight.
He had vanished. She did not recall hearing any vehicle but by then she was likely too distraught anyway. She did not possess a mobile phone at that time and had done her best to battle her way back to the road where she had stumbled on in a daze in the direction of her home, too terrified to flag down the few passing cars. She had eventually made it home and woken her housemate. The housemate had called the police. The subsequent police investigation had focussed first on those at the Shenton Park party. It was sound enough strategy: that the rapist was one of the guests who had seen Younger getting progressively drunk and had followed her, waiting until the cover of the cemetery. They had two potential suspects but both cleared on DNA and it was back to square one with time having elapsed. The next stage had been looking for witnesses who might have been driving by. They checked the speed camera inevitably set up at the cemetery, followed up on a couple of infringements roughly around the time of the rape but got nothing. One motorist remembered seeing a young woman, most likely Younger, walking unsteadily south near Aberdare Road. It was a dead end. Nobody was ever charged. I left the file open on my desk. I wasn’t finished with it. Maybe it wasn’t somebody known to Emily, Caitlin and Jessica who had abducted them. On the other hand, maybe it was.
‘It’s not fun having the cops accuse you of being a serial killer.’ Party Pig Partigan slid the speaker box off his broad shoulders and placed it down at the back of the truck.
I offered a correction. ‘We don’t know the girls are dead.’
He pursed his lips. Partigan was only around five-eight but built like a bull. ‘That’s how they acted. That Sergeant Collins, he was … he was fucking heavy.’
I could imagine. Partigan had been on a north-west tour with a band for the last week and a half and this had been my first chance to get to him. It was already November, Grace was officially a year older and my investigations had stalled. Soon as he was back from tour, I called Partigan at work and he’d agreed to talk while he loaded up for a gig that night.
‘I mean, look at me,’ he was sweating through his singlet, hair sprouted from his shoulders. ‘You think those girls are going to jump in the truck with me?’
I didn’t want to rub him up the wrong way but I felt obliged to point out the cops may have thought he just grabbed them.
‘Right out the front of The Sheaf? With people coming and going all the time? Besides, like I told Collins, “Where do you think I put them?” ’ He gestured through the open back door of the truck. It was jammed tight with sound gear. The only space left was for this last speaker box.
‘Did you know the girls?’
‘Not personally, no.’
‘Did you recognise them though?’
‘Not really. They were a type, you know? Those rich chicks. I mean, there’s a few girls always would dance down the front of the stage trying to catch the band’s eye. You get to know them after a while. The others just give you a hard time when you politely ask them to take their drinks off the mixing desk.’
Partigan sounded like he might have a chip on his shoulder. That could be the sort of guy who would abduct these girls. I baited.
‘Like you’re the one in the wrong?’
‘Exactly. I’m just doing my job.’
He heaved the box into the truck. It fitted snugly.
‘You saw Emily leave Autostrada.’
‘Yes, I did.’ He slammed the doors shut and bolted them.
‘How did you know it was her?’
‘I recognised her when they put her photo on the news.’
Earlier he’d indicated these girls were a ‘type’.
‘This was a week or so later?’
‘Yeah. I remembered. I was out there loading the truck. People were coming and going and then it was one of those lulls. There’s nobody there and I saw her walk out of Autostrada and turn towards Stirling Highway.’
‘You know why you remember her?’
‘Just did.’
He was fiddling with his keys, giving me a signal he wanted to get going. I refrained from asking about Caitlin or Jessica at this point.
‘Did you notice anybody lurking about? Any vehicles?’
‘Just the station wagon.’
My ears pricked up. I’d been over and over the reports. There’d been no mention of a station wagon.
‘What wagon was this?’
Partigan explained that for a gig at The Sheaf he would pull up in the loading zone out front and drop all the gear in. He would then move off and park the truck in one of the carparks for the duration of the gig to clear the loading zone for other deliveries.
‘After the gig, I’d go get the truck. When I went to get the truck that night it was pretty deserted. Few pedestrians heading to Autostrada. Where I parked the truck there was a station wagon, engine running, but no headlights. It was a bit odd. I forgot about it at first but when I was trying to remember stuff, it came back to me.’
‘You didn’t see who was in it?’
‘No. It was parked next to my truck on the left facing the wall so I couldn’t see in the window. And when I was in the cab, I was too high. When I reversed, I was too busy making sure I didn’t run into anybody.’
‘Where exactly did you park that night?’
‘There’s a little carpark behind the post office, just four or five spaces. You back out onto Railway Parade or whatever it’s called.’
He meant Gugeri Street on the railway end of Bayview Terrace. I remembered the small carpark, hidden away.
‘What time was this?’
‘About twenty minutes, half an hour, before I saw Emily. I’d packed all the gear up ready just inside the front door of The Sheaf, so I just had to load it in the truck when I parked back there. I reckon I was halfway through when I saw her leave. So, yeah, twenty minutes, I reckon.’
‘Anything else you remember about the car? Make, model, colour?’
‘I think it might have been a Holden. It was dark; dark red I think. There was no light, so I’m not sure.’
He didn’t recall stickers, an aerial or obvious dent. He checked his watch. ‘Man, I want to help, but I gotta go.’
‘You told the police all this?’
‘Yeah.’
He climbed into the truck and drove out of the warehouse. I supposed the detail of the car was contained in his interview and therefore not available to me on the police record. The police report summarising what Partigan had claimed to have seen was quite long and detailed as it was and maybe whoever was doing it figured this wasn’t critical to go in. Or it could simply have been some lazy police work. Then again, maybe I was the sloppy one; there was a file marked VEHICLES containing close to two hundred vehicles the police wanted to track in relation to the case. I’d only skimmed through this. Maybe I would find it in there?
I did not find any mention of Partigan’s account but I did find a report of a dark-coloured station wagon in reference to the disappearance of Jessica Scanlan. According to that, the day Jessica’s disappearance was made public there was an anonymous call to police of such a car being seen at the highway end of Bay View Terrace at 1.05 Saturday morning. Somebody had noted in the margin this was forty-five minutes after Jessica had left The Sheaf and was therefore ‘unlikely’. But the caller could have got the time wrong. Okay, two sightings in the vicinity of the disappearances around the time wasn’t remarkable but it was more than interesting. There was also a sighting of a silver Camry for the time and nights Jessica and Caitlin disappeared and for this vehicle the timing was more exact with the last known time they had been seen. Trouble was, silver Camrys were a dime a dozen. There were also multiple sightings of a light-coloured Ford Falcon in the area on the night of all three disappearances but again there were thousands of these cars. I was working off my home computer. The hard copy I’d printed was at the office. With Grace on the scene I found I was splitting myself more frequently between the two locations and even though it was a five-minute drive to the office, it was a pain in the arse to be shuffling around.
I’d come straight back from the PA factory to the house to relieve Sue, who had been holding the fort. I was still dwelling on Partigan and barely took in what my mother-in-law was explaining about Grace’s eating and pooing. In terms of assessing his credentials as a killer, my interview with the roadie had been no more illuminating than that with Bontillo. It was like trying to sightsee the Colosseum at night with a single match.
I heard the key in the lock and unmistakable footsteps up the hall. I turned to Grace who was on the floor on a rug fiddling with building blocks.
‘Mummy’s home.’
Tash entered in her work clothes and her eyes went straight to her daughter. Grace gurgled, delighted, and her arms reached out. Tash scooped her up.
‘I never get that reaction.’ It was true. I might as well have been a guy measuring curtains as far as my daughter was concerned.
‘When she’s older, you’ll be the favourite.’ Tash gave me a consolation kiss.
I guess we’d have to wait a while to see if that was true.
Before dinner, Tash and I popped Grace in her stroller and walked to Hyde Park. It felt good having Tash on my arm, her body pressed into me. Simple things in life, eh. It was one of those cool, breezy November evenings that pop their heads up for a little guerrilla rear-guard action after spring had lulled you with warm, peppery-scented days suggesting the battle was over and summer was about to roll in, the conqueror, a column of scorchers in tow.
‘You think it’s possible they could still be alive?’ Tash shuddered as she spoke. I wasn’t sure if it was the night air or the idea.
‘I didn’t at first but the longer no bodies turn up, you have to think it’s possible.’
‘They make TV shows about that stuff. Some psycho with girls chained in a cellar. You don’t think it could happen here.’
I didn’t contradict her but after Gruesome nothing surprised me. The universe had shrunk, evil was but a mouse click away and little ol’ Perth could be every bit as malevolent as LA or Adelaide. Even though Grace was too young to understand, I had an aversion talking about the case anywhere near her, like it could contaminate our family too.
‘I don’t really feel like talking about this right now,’ I said.
‘Sorry, I just … it’s so unreal.’
‘It’s not your fault, it’s me, I’m …’
How do you express how every minute on the case choked the life out of me?
‘It’s like smog that I’m surrounded by all day and I just need a little fresh air.’ I wanted to assure her my lack of communication was temporary so added, ‘When we get back.’
‘Smog?’ she raised her eyebrows, chipping me, but I knew she got it. She always got it.
As it turned out we never got around to further discussion. Tash went to put Grace down and I warmed the stove with Van Morrison as background. Back in the early ’70s, I used to go and see a band called Roadband. They were the ones who turned me onto Van the Man. He made cooking easier too. My culinary capability had all the range of my cheap mobile in a concrete tunnel, but what I did, I did really well … fifty percent of the time. I opened the fridge, saw eggs and decided I’d fix us an omelette. As I cracked an egg, my mobile phone rang. Only clients rang it. I answered, reaching for a knife to slice cheese.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Craig Drummond.’
In my game you read the tone in a voice quicker than the short acceptance speech you pray they’ll give and never do. You can pick anger, fear, envy, and so on in a breath. In Drummond’s voice I heard anxiety.
‘Do you know anything?’
Yep, there it was, high anxiety.
‘About what?’
‘You haven’t seen the news?’
I turned down the stove, picked up the remote and sent the magic beam to the new flat screen I’d bought specially for the Olympics but barely watched. The screen ignited on bushland, police in forensic gear. Even without the big type that scrawled over the screen – REMAINS OF YOUNG WOMAN FOUND – I would have guessed what was going on. Drummond was back in my ear.
‘Do you know if it’s Caitlin? Have you heard anything? Gerry rang me. They’re beside themselves.’
‘I haven’t heard anything. Tregilgas will call the family. I’m persona non grata, he’s made that clear.’ I wanted to concentrate on the news item. ‘Listen, I better watch this, I’ll call you if I hear anything.’
He thanked me and rang off. I sat on our cheap sofa and leaned closer to the screen. I recognised the netballer cop and Collins in the background. The body had been found in a shallow grave in bush near Jarrahdale, an hour south-east of Fremantle. They switched back to their reporter on the scene, a young woman pretty enough to be in an ice-cream ad. Her long brown hair was flailing in the wind as she pitched a stream of excited words into her microphone. Apparently the remains had been found early that morning and police had been on the scene all day processing it. It was too early to say if it was one of the missing young women but police had said the state of the remains suggested the time frame was consistent. Tash entered the room and sat silently beside me. At some point she rested her hand in mine. I suppose there were people all over the city doing the same thing, all imagining what it was like to be the parents. A lot of times we fervently hope for something in life but this time I prayed for something to not happen: I did not want to find myself in the situation of those parents, ever.
I knew the police would be looking for something distinctive to identify the body. In Caitlin’s case the thin watch and gold necklace. Jessica Scanlan had been wearing a gold bluebird necklet when she disappeared, Emily had three gold bangles. An Australia-wide search had failed to turn up these items in pawn shops or anywhere else for that matter, leaving the possibility they were still with the girls or their abductor. Neither Tash nor I had much appetite after that. I think we had some toast, it was a blur.