Cold Justice (24 page)

‘It is hard,’ Freya said.

‘You said . . .’ Georgie faltered. What had she said, really?

‘I said it’s hard when you think you’ve done a good job.’

Georgie felt like stamping her foot. ‘What was wrong with it?’

‘You should’ve checked her back earlier.’

‘That’s a judgement call.’

‘I disagree,’ Freya said. ‘And your nose-to-toes examination was rushed. You could have missed serious abdominal injuries.’

Georgie shook her head. ‘The job went well.’

‘Hey, I’m just saying.’ Freya sat back in the chair. ‘This is my role while we’re working together and we both have to get used to it. I like you, Georgie, and when I said it’d be a pity if you failed I meant it.’

Georgie was shaking. If you took her on her words alone, yes, that was what Freya meant, but there’d been a subtext as well. Georgie hadn’t imagined it. Freya had been telling her that if she told the detectives what James had said about her and Tim, she’d be failed. She was certain.

Freya smiled up at her again. ‘So . . . friends?’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You think I don’t want to be your friend?’

‘I think you’re lying,’ Georgie said. ‘About the threat and about Tim.’

‘Sit down,’ Freya said calmly.

‘No.’

‘I just want to talk to you.’

‘So talk.’

‘You’ve been through a lot,’ Freya said. ‘That stuff you told me about Ross the other day is enough to send anyone off the deep end. Plus you had the accident, and there was that girl you mentioned who you couldn’t save, and you’ve been in hospital too. I can understand why you feel victimised and why it would seem that anything anyone says to you contains a threat of some kind.’

‘I didn’t imagine it.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ she said. ‘It’s not your imagination at work here. It’s another part of your brain that’s misinterpreting what’s going on.’

Georgie felt her hackles rise. ‘I’m not crazy.’

‘Again. Misinterpreting. Your mind is on high alert all the time and picking up signals that aren’t really there. Like when you’re threatened by a patient and for a while afterwards you expect it from everyone. It’s not real, there is no threat, but your brain sets you on edge for it anyway.’

Georgie frowned. She couldn’t think straight. She’d wanted to confront Freya and clear things up, not finish in this muddy pool.

‘Everything is okay,’ Freya said. ‘We can improve your work. You don’t have to fail. We’ll stick together and I’ll help you and you’ll get through it with no worries.’

Georgie looked at her.
Even that sounds funny to me.

‘And you have to turn down that part of your brain that’s telling you lies,’ Freya said. ‘Everything really is going to be fine.’

The job phone rang and she got up, gave Georgie’s shoulder a squeeze then went to answer it. Georgie stood there, feeling the imprint of her fingers and wondering what the hell had just happened.

TEN

T
he second address on the list was in Ramsgate. Ella cruised along the beachfront, her window down, breathing in the salt air. Murray had brought a wad of statements and reports and was reading.

‘You been in touch with Tim’s schoolfriends yet?’ he asked.

‘How many days have I had this case?’

‘Just asking.’

The house was in a tiny backstreet. A white Commodore stood in the front yard on blocks, its wheel arches pitted with rust and a hole in the back window. The parcel shelf was split and water-stained. A ripped piece of tarp lay on the ground next to the back wheel. There were no plates.

The two concrete steps to the front door of the house were cracked and the top one wobbled under Ella’s feet. When Murray knocked, the wood sounded damp, the noise not carrying at all.

The knob turned but the door didn’t move. ‘Push it,’ a feeble voice said.

Ella put her hand flat on the wood and pressed, wary of the door popping open and knocking the person down. The paint felt soggy against her skin.

‘Harder.’

Murray put his shoulder to it and shoved. It budged just a fraction. The base squeaked against the floorboards and jammed.

An old man’s bleary blue eye and white-stubbled chin appeared in the gap. ‘Harder.’

‘Move back a couple of steps, please,’ Ella said.

He shuffled away. ‘Okay.’

She turned to put her good shoulder alongside Murray’s and they counted down then heaved. The door scraped back half a metre.

‘That’ll do,’ the man said, coming back to the opening.

She got out her badge. ‘Are you Peter Petropolous?’

‘Senior,’ he said. ‘There’s also Peter Junior, my son. He’s at work. He’s an engineer with the council.’

‘Is that his car?’

‘He’s got two.’ He turned his head away to cough. ‘He’s got a red Mazda as well.’

‘Do you have the numberplates for this car?’ Murray said.

He frowned. ‘I guess so. Somewhere. I’ll go look.’

From this side the car was in even worse condition, the back passenger door missing its handle, the bottom of the front door eaten away by rust. The grass underneath was dead and rotting. ‘I think we’re pretty safe here,’ Ella said in a low voice to Murray.

‘Here y’go.’ The old man thrust the plates at her. PQW 296. They were dusty and stuck back to back with old and peeling sticky tape.

‘Thanks.’ She handed them back. ‘Much appreciated.’

‘Pull the door shut again? Ta.’

Murray dragged it back into its frame.

‘Ta,’ the man said again, through the wood.

In the car she crossed the Commodore off the list. ‘So much for that.’

‘Where’s the next one?’

‘Kingsgrove. The rest are out west and north, then there are some in the bush too.’

Murray tapped the pages. ‘What do you say after Kingsgrove we go back to the office and look up these schoolmates?’

Ella rolled her eyes. ‘How about we see what we learn there first?’

The house in Kingsgrove had holes in its fibro walls. A beat-up green and primer-coated Corolla was parked crookedly in the carport. A screen frame with no screen hung from one hinge at the front door, held out of the way by a dead pot plant, and inside the house somebody was playing the drums badly. Ella knocked on the door and stood to one side. Murray waited on the dead lawn with his arms folded.

‘Yerp?’

The female voice came from the window beside her. She held out her badge to the shadowy shape. ‘Rosanna Desmond?’

‘Yep.’

‘Open the door, please.’

The shape disappeared. ‘Shut up for one minute!’ The drums stopped. The door opened. The woman who stood there had short, dark hair and a passing resemblance to the woman in the CCTV from the shopping centre. ‘Can I see that badge again?’

Ella let her look. ‘You own a beige Commodore, registration PQW 990?’

‘What’s happened to it?’

‘Is it here?’

Rosanna shook her head. ‘I lent it to a friend a week ago after her car shat itself. It was this old beat-up Datsun? They reckon it’s the motor, but she’s got no money, and she’s got these little kids, they’re like two and four? And she has to get them to childcare and herself to work.’

Ella narrowed her eyes. That was a lot of information to just volunteer. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Alone?’

‘My brother was here too.’ She turned. ‘Basil! Get up here.’

The boy was tall and heavily built. His black crewcut had white stripes dyed into it.

‘Where was I last night?’ she asked him.

‘Here.’ He twirled the drumsticks.

‘What did we do?’

‘Watched DVDs.
Cloverfield
.
Gone Baby Gone
.’ He fumbled a drumstick.

‘Nobody else can vouch for that?’ Ella said.

‘Just me and him.’

Ella opened her notebook. ‘What’s your friend’s name, the one who has your car?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need to know.’

‘She’s scared of cops. She got pulled over once by this motorbike cop? And he was like really mean.’

‘We’re not highway patrol,’ Murray said.

Ella said to Rosanna, ‘We need her name.’

‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘It’s Heather Preston-Hayes. What’s the big deal about the car anyway?’

‘Address?’

‘Flat Six, Seventy-three Railway Parade, Campsie.’ She folded her arms. Basil played the sticks against the doorframe. She lashed out, trying to grab them, and he stamped off. ‘Idiot,’ she said.

‘You are,’ came the muffled reply.

Ella said, ‘Is she at work now?’

‘You’re not going there.’

‘The address.’

Rosanna sighed. ‘She works in a clothes shop in Burwood. In the Plaza. It’s called Highest Fashions, something like that.’

Ella closed her notebook with a snap.

‘She didn’t do anything,’ Rosanna said. ‘Neither did I .’

‘Thanks for your time,’ Murray said.

‘But what’s the deal with the car?’ she called after them.

Ella drove off, then got stopped at the next lights. She looked at Murray. ‘Feel anything promising?’

‘Not really.’

Well, she did. One of these cars had to pan out and Rosanna’s story was just off enough to make her antennae twitch.

The Plaza was busy. They found the shop, Higher Fashions, on one of those ‘you are here’ boards. The shop itself was small and squeezed into a corner. Inside, a young woman with red hair tied up in a black scrunchie was folding T-shirts at a table. There were no other staff to be seen.

She smiled at Ella. ‘Help you?’

‘Heather Preston-Hayes?’

The smile faded. ‘Yes.’

Ella showed her badge. ‘You are currently in possession of a beige Commodore, registration PQW 990?’

She nodded. ‘It’s not my car though.’

‘Where is it now?’ Murray said.

‘In the car park, I hope. On the roof. Staff parking.’

‘Where were you last night?’ Ella said.

‘Home with the rugrats. Why?’

‘Was anyone else there?’

‘Just me and them.’

‘You had the car?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve had it for almost two weeks.’

‘Has anyone borrowed it in that time?’ Murray said.

‘No.’

‘Rosanna hasn’t had the need to use it at all?’ Ella asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Her brother has a car too and she uses that, or he drives her around.’

Ella nodded. ‘We need you to show us the car.’

‘But I can’t leave the shop,’ she said. ‘I’m the only one who works here. If the boss finds that I’ve gone out, even for a minute, I’ll lose my job.’

‘Can’t somebody from next door cover you?’

‘Not allowed. Not even to go to the loo. I have to wait till the boss comes in.’

‘That sounds –’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I need the job and he knows it.’

Ella nodded. ‘Where’s the car parked?’

Heather drew a scratch map on a bit of paper for them, and they walked back through the centre and took the lift up to the roof. Outside, the afternoon was bright, a hot wind blowing. The white concrete was blinding. Ella squinted at the map in the shade of her hand.

‘There it is.’ Murray pointed to a far corner.

The Commodore was parked nose to the wall. A reflective sunshade made the inside of the car dim, and Ella went close on the passenger side, shielding her face with her hand to look inside. Two child seats were in the back, and a Dora the Explorer doll lay on the floor.

‘Not our vehicle,’ Murray said. ‘Look.’

She went to the driver’s side and stopped short at the sight of the dark grey front-quarter panel. Murray crouched and ran his fingers across it. There were a couple of dings and a deep scratch across the wheel arch, and the exposed metal underneath was starting to rust. They’d been able to see this part of the car clearly on the CCTV. This wasn’t it.

She sighed. ‘So much for that.’

Murray grinned. ‘Schoolmates, here we come.’

The building was tall and old and shabby, with a yellow bulb on in the foyer even at mid-afternoon. Nobody was there to meet them.

Freya pressed the lift button. Georgie stood nearby. She hadn’t said a word since they’d left the station. Freya got the feeling she was trying to decide whether to believe her. Either that or she was planning to call the cops regardless.

She hit the lift button again. ‘What’s with this thing?’

Georgie looked back out the grimy glass doors at the street and didn’t answer.

Freya tried to think what the chances were that Georgie would leave of her own accord. She felt ashamed of each new thing she did, and annoyed at being put in the position where she had to lie and bully and try to make Georgie feel like it was all in her head. It was a cheap and nasty shot but, as she pointed out to herself again, she had no option.

The lift doors wheezed open and they stepped in. It smelled of disinfectant poured over urine. Freya watched Georgie frowning at the brown lino floor and fought back a frown herself. The stress of the situation had made her face tight, and she caught herself wondering where they went from here.

The door opened on the fifth-floor landing. The green carpet was worn down to the backing in a path between the lift and the four apartment doors. Freya let Georgie go first, and stayed a step behind as she knocked on the door of 503. ‘Ambulance.’

Locks were released and the door opened the width of a security chain. A wizened old man peered out. ‘Is that the ambulance?’

Georgie showed him the patch on her sleeve. ‘That’s me.’

The man closed the door and slid the chain off. ‘She’s in the toilet.’

Freya followed Georgie and the man down a narrow hallway made narrower by the enormous gilt-framed paintings hung on both walls. The light was too poor to make out most of the pictures, though Freya got a fleeting glimpse of some tragic bowl of misshapen fruit as she went along sideways to avoid hitting anything with the equipment.

The man stopped at the end and pointed to a closed door. ‘In there.’

Freya put down the monitor and drug box. Georgie knocked. ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked.

‘Yes, dearie.’ The voice was little and old and female. It came from low down.

Freya watched Georgie try the handle. It turned. She pushed against the door and it opened a crack then the old lady yelped. ‘Fingers.’