Harum Scarum (29 page)

A gush of extremities exploded from the car when Angus opened the door.

‘I’ve been unlawfully detained in here for over an hour; I’m hot and I’m thirsty and I need a piss; you can’t do this to me; I demand to see my lawyer...’ Stoppard swallowed the rest of his sentence when he saw Bishop’s soft shiny face staring at him through the car door. ‘Who’s this?’

‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ Angus said.

‘Never seen him before in my life,’ Stoppard said. No surprises there.

When both men had been driven away, Stevie stood in the carport and rang Central to see that Emma’s parents were notified that she was safe and would be brought home soon. Then she phoned Monty at the hospital and told him the good news. The blipping and beeping of the heart monitor underscored their telephone conversation. He sounded groggy and ready for sleep. She told him she loved him and would be seeing him soon. The old ache returned and she found herself blinking away tears.

Tash had accompanied Angus with the suspects, leaving a forensics team to search the Chateau for any further incriminating evidence. Emma and Stevie stood in the driveway until the frogs in the lake swallowed the sound of the disappearing cars.

Stevie held her hand out to the girl. ‘C’mon hon, time to get you back to the city. We need to record an official interview with one of your parents present.’

The girl wiped her mouth with her hand. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she whispered. ‘I need the toilet again.’

Stevie waited for Emma in the great hall. The child looked paler than ever when she returned.

‘Tummy trouble?’ Stevie asked

Emma nodded and rubbed her stomach. ‘Can we just wait here for a bit longer? If I go in the car now I think I might be sick.’ She sank into one of the chairs.

‘I thought you’d be wanting to get away from this place as soon as possible.’ Stevie sat down next to her.

‘No, I like it here.’

She’d rather be here than with her parents, Stevie thought. Sad. The forensics team had erected lights in the courtyard, and brilliant artificial light shone through the window. Every now and then lenses of Emma’s glasses flickered silver.

Stevie reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

‘If Mr McGuire’s in hospital, who’s looking after Izzy?’ Emma asked, her soft brown eyes filled with concern.

‘She’s staying with my mum, Izzy’s grandma. Her place is like a second home.’

‘Izzy must be worried sick about her dad.’

‘She’s okay; my mother’s explained everything to her. I’ll take her to the hospital to see him in the morning.’

‘That might be scary for her.’ Emma opened her mouth as if to say something else, then closed it again. It was obvious that there was a lot more on her mind than worry for Izzy.

‘Look, Emma, I know you’ve had a hard time, but I think you’ve left out quite a bit—when I interview you at Central, you’ll have to tell me everything.’

The girl took off her glasses and pressed her hands into her eyes. ‘In front of my parents? Do I have to, can’t I just tell you now?’

‘I might be able to find someone else to sit in with you if it would make you feel more comfortable.’

Emma hesitated, let out a sigh. ‘No it’s okay. I suppose they’d have to find out eventually.’

‘You can talk to me now if you like, but you don’t have to.’ Stevie had a sudden feeling that the girl might clam up during the official interview. Surely a few off the record questions while she seemed willing to talk wouldn’t do any harm? It might help the official questioning run more smoothly and that would mean less trauma for Emma in the long run.

‘You seem to understand a lot about paedophiles, how they work and what they do,’ she said.

Emma shrugged, ‘I read a lot.’

‘Tell me then, how you got to know Bianca Webster.’

The girl looked to the high ceiling, her voice shook. ‘How, how do you know that?’

‘I’ve read the emails and chat transcripts Bianca stored on her iPod.’

Emma’s hands twisted before her on the table. ‘I taught Bianca how to save stuff to her iPod. She didn’t want her mum finding them on her computer.’

There was a long silence.

‘Emma?

When the child finally spoke, it was through both hands covering her mouth, as if she was trying to separate herself from what was being said.

‘I met her at the agency; sometimes I have to wait for Miranda there after school. Bianca was crying, I felt sorry for her and we began to talk. I told her about a kids’ website which had some great stories on it and I said I thought it might cheer her up.’

Stevie gently removed Emma’s hands from her mouth. ‘And then you began writing Katy Enigma stories for her?’ She paused. ‘Look at me Emma.’

‘Ummm...’ Emma turned her head away again. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Yes you did, I found them. It’s your website, Emma, you call yourself Harum Scarum.’

‘Oh...’ Silence stretched between them. Stevie said nothing, hoping to let it work for her.

Finally Emma gave a resigned sigh. ‘Mainly she just read mine, but she had a go at writing the stories too sometimes. They got better each time, I think I really helped her and she seemed to get happier. But then, then she turned to that fraud Daniel. She was so unhappy and she needed some kind of escape. I don’t think my stories were helping her anymore. She kept asking me to meet her face to face, but I didn’t think it was such a good idea. Sometimes it’s best to retain a bit of distance from the people you’re trying to help, don’t you think?

‘But I stuffed up, I handled it wrong and now she’s dead. Maybe if I’d agreed to meet and talk to her she would be alive now. But I’ve got to know so many kids on the website and I can’t meet them all, can I?’

Emma lost the battle with her tears. ‘There’s so much else, I just don’t know how to say it. You’re going to think I’m a really really bad person.’

‘I’d never think that, Emma,’ Stevie said, weighing in her mind just how much she could push the child without causing her too much distress. ‘Tell me what you know about Miro Kusak’s death.’

The child gulped down air. ‘They’ll send me to prison. I did a bad thing.’

‘Emma?’ Stevie gently encouraged.

Emma shook her head violently. ‘No, no, I can’t tell you.’

Emma barely spoke on the journey back to the city. Earlier she’d admitted to having something to do with Kusak’s death, but she back-tracked on the drive home, telling Stevie she didn’t know anything. She’d only said what she’d said earlier because she wished it was true, wished that she really had killed him. This is one disturbed kid, Stevie thought as she glanced at the miserable figure curled in the front seat of the car.

‘How do you think one of your hairs got onto the dashboard of Kusak’s car, Emma?’ she asked, keeping her tone soft.

Emma sniffed. ‘Did it? Ummmm, I don’t know.’ Her face contorted as she battled to retrieve the memory—or invent the lie, Stevie wasn’t sure. ‘Hang on, I think I know; I sent Bianca some of my old clothes, I posted them a few months ago—maybe she was wearing something of mine when she was kidnapped and it had my hair on it?’

She was sure the girl was lying, but Stevie tried to keep her voice free from the suspicion she felt. ‘Can you describe the clothes you gave to her?’

‘It was a while ago, I’m not really sure, T-shirts, shorts,’ Emma said with a vague wave of her hand.

Stevie’s resolve slipped as exasperation moved in. ‘Emma, who are you trying to protect, yourself or someone else?’

Emma slapped both hands upon the dashboard, the sudden noise making Stevie swerve the car in surprise. ‘I’m not protecting anyone and you can’t say I am, you can’t prove anything!’ she cried.

Stevie remained silent, gripped the steering wheel and wished she had been more patient. Emma was right; she couldn’t prove anything. She still didn’t know exactly what happened that night at the lookout with Miro Kusak.

Whatever it was, she knew Emma hadn’t acted alone. The only thing she could think to do now was set up a meeting with Donna French. She might be able to give Emma some kind of counselling, persuade her to tell the authorities what she knew.

They drove on in silence for several more minutes. At last the tension began to ease. The girl leaned forward and began to fiddle with the radio, trying to find a station she liked. After a while she gave up and resigned herself to Stevie’s oldies station. Soon the unmistakable dissonance of a Hendrix riff filled the car.

Stevie judged the time to be right to ask a question that had been niggling in the back of her mind for some time now.

‘Emma,’ she asked, ‘just one more thing; your Internet nickname, Harum Scarum, what does it mean?’

The small white face turned from the radio and faced hers. Stevie had to strain to catch the words, whispered to the backdrop of
Purple Haze.

‘It means confusion,’ she said.

At Central they met up with Emma’s father. He’d turned into an old man since Stevie had last seen him, with hunched shoulders and trembling hands. Tears glistened in his eyes as he pulled his daughter close. They recorded an interview in which she explained everything that had happened to her over the last twenty-four hours. As he learned about the true nature of Aidan Stoppard he covered his face with his hands, then slammed a fist on the table and cried, ‘I’ll kill him!’ Emma flinched at the explosion and Stevie warned Breightling to control himself.

His eyes softened as he met his daughter’s. ‘I’m sorry darling, so sorry for everything,’ he whispered and clasped her hand upon the table. Stevie noticed Emma squeeze it back.

When the interview was over, Stevie escorted father and daughter back to their house. With eyes red and puffy, the strain of the last twenty-four hours seemed also to be finally showing on Miranda’s face. She held Emma tight and sobbed with genuine relief when she met them at the door. But she might as well have been something reptilian if the look on Emma’s face was anything to go by. For one fleeting moment, Stevie felt sorry for Miranda.

‘Have they’ve locked Aidan up?’ Miranda asked when she finally let her daughter go.

Stevie nodded; there was little else she could say in front of the child.

Christopher placed an arm around Emma’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go and have a shower and get ready for bed?’

‘Will you come and see me later?’ Emma asked him.

Miranda looked at her watch and frowned.

‘Of course,’ Breightling said.

‘It’s nearly one o’clock,’ Miranda said.

‘I’d go and see her if it was five o’clock, Miranda.’

‘Yes, of course and I will too, she’s had a terrible time,’ Miranda conceded with a deep sigh.

Emma disappeared upstairs and Christopher offered Stevie a seat on an uncomfortable wooden bench near the window. The sound of trickling water from the garden pond and the croaking of the frogs reminded Stevie of the sound effects at Stoppard’s Chateau-by-the-Lake. Christopher suggested a drink. When she declined he poured a double measure of scotch into a crystal glass for himself, topped up Miranda’s orange juice with vodka.

‘You must believe us, we had no idea that Aidan was like this, no idea at all,’ Miranda said, agitating the ice in her glass.

‘The pornography in that secret room ... all those visitors he gets to the Chateau...’ Breightling forked slim fingers through his sparse hair. ‘Everything is beginning to make sense.’

‘I can’t believe that he tried to hurt her. He’s her godfather for God’s sake!’ Miranda’s voice was shrill, only a couple of notches below hysteria.

‘Last time we went up to the Chateau, she didn’t want to go, remember how she was, Miranda?’ Breightling didn’t look at his wife, just stared into his glass, swirling the liquid.

‘Well, she only said that to you. I wasn’t privileged to the information.’

‘I thought it was because of the hideous statues on the lawn,’ Christopher looked at Stevie. ‘I told her to stop being silly.’ His voice shook. He pulled out a bar stool and slumped next to his wife. Stevie wondered why they never seemed to opt for the more comfortable sofa—too intimate perhaps?

‘You’ve known Stoppard for a long time?’ Stevie asked him.

‘I was involved in a land development with him years ago. I was cutting down my practice hours, sick of the long hours and my frequent trips abroad. Aidan had been at school with Miranda.’

‘We met when we were both in year ten,’ Miranda said. ‘He’d just come over from England with his mother. He was so much more interesting than the other children, bright, worldly.’ Her sigh was almost dreamy.
Jesus,
woman, Stevie thought, do you have no regrets at all?

‘Worldly all right,’ Breightling laughed bitterly. ‘He’s got money now of course. He’s a self-made man who never tires of reminding me of it.’

Miranda stiffened on her stool. ‘It’s all very well to be clever after the event, Christopher. No one forced you to do business with him. You haven’t always thought this way about him.’

Stevie held her palms up to the couple.

Breightling took a breath and his eyes dropped once more to his scotch. ‘Yes well, he introduced us, actually.’ Stevie got the idea he would have been more than happy to erase that part of his life. Had it really been love at first sight? Maybe as far as Breightling was concerned—but did he have an inkling of what a prize he would have been for a woman like Miranda? And one tall poppy Aidan Stoppard must have relished shooting down.

Stevie wondered what else had been in it for Stoppard. A soft touch surgeon with little business acumen, perhaps? An attractive wife who produced an even more attractive daughter? The thought was so sickening, it had to be true.

‘Are you still involved in business with Stoppard, Mr Breightling? Stevie asked.

‘Of course, he was our accountant,’ Miranda put in.

Christopher gave a vague wave of his hand. ‘Still a few things here and there—more’s the pity.’

‘And how are they going?’ Stevie asked.

‘Terribly,’ said Miranda.

Breightling put his empty glass down. His face was twitching. ‘Nothing we can’t extract ourselves from. Just don’t, don’t be so melodramatic, Miranda.’