Tell the Truth (10 page)

‘Cops fake CCTV all the time, everyone knows that,' Mackenzie said. ‘And I'm not a child you can use a countdown on. I hope you're not expecting me to crack like some toddler.'

‘Two.'

‘I mean, what did the idiot say? Nothing actually happened. I know my rights. There's no law against shouting when someone does something stupid like that.'

‘A woman could be dead,' Ella said.

‘No way did we hurt anyone.'

Ella smiled at her. ‘We?'

‘Oh, fucking – all right. But we didn't do anything wrong. Olivier just yelled. You better not tell my mother about this.'

‘Was the cyclist a man or a woman?'

‘You just said a woman.'

‘That's someone else. Which was it?'

‘I don't know. I didn't see.'

‘Olivier didn't say? Didn't sit back and say “stupid bastard” or anything?'

She thought a minute. ‘I don't think so.'

‘What's Olivier's last name and address?'

‘He'll have the shits if you lot turn up at his house. Plus his mum hates me even more than mine hates him.'

‘Your mum's going to come in at any moment. You want me to keep asking?'

Mackenzie moaned into her hands, then gave a name and address in Abbotsford.

Ella got out her card. ‘You remember any little thing about that cyclist, give me a call.'

‘Can you get me out of that speeding fine?'

‘Not my department, sorry.'

Mackenzie stuck the card into her pocket. ‘Why am I not surprised.'

Murray and Alison Walker came back in with a tray of tea things, Alison saying, ‘A job is what she needs.'

‘I have a job,' Mackenzie said to Ella.

‘Part-time at Coles is not what I'm talking about,' Alison said. ‘A career. Is it hard to get into the police?'

‘Like I'm too dumb to do anything better,' Mackenzie said.

‘No offence taken,' Ella said.

‘Milk? I hope skim's okay. It's all we drink. Sweetener?' Alison said. ‘Was she any help at all?'

‘She was fine,' Ella said. ‘Thanks for the tea, but we have to get going.'

Outside, the air was cool, the trees motionless, and bats crossed the darkening sky. As Ella and Murray got in the car, she told him what Mackenzie had said.

He started the engine. ‘One day someone's going to realise what we're up to with that tea thing and refuse.'

*

They talked to Olivier Tarlington while he fixed a bike on the lawn at the back of his parents' house. Moths flew at the floodlight over the back door, and the place was close enough to Hen and Chicken Bay that Ella could smell the mud exposed by the low tide and hear the clink of the cabling on the masts of the moored yachts out on the water. Her home was across the river in Putney, probably five minutes away if she was a crow.

‘I don't really remember what I said.' Olivier spun the pedals of the bike.

Ella grabbed the tyre to stop it. ‘Would a trip down to the station help?'

‘You can't make me go,' he said. ‘If my mum and dad were here you wouldn't be talking to me at all.'

‘Lucky us,' Murray said.

Olivier pinched a mosquito off the back of his neck and flicked it onto the grass. His dark skin seemed to absorb the light. ‘Mackenzie said you lied to her, said that some chick was dead to make her talk.'

‘I said might be dead,' Ella replied. ‘And it's true. We think the person you shouted at knows something important.'

‘And you need my help to find them.'

‘Yes.'

He spun the pedals again, then stopped them and fiddled with the chain. He wiped the grease onto his jeans. ‘It was a chick.'

‘You're sure?' Murray said.

He nodded. ‘I yelled at her. I said she was a stupid dumb c-word and she should get the f-word off the road.'

Ella didn't smile at his propriety. ‘How close were you?'

‘I guess as far away as that fence.'

Ella looked. Five metres, maybe less. ‘How clearly did you see her face?'

‘Like looking at you,' he said.

‘Can you describe her?' Murray said.

‘All you whities look the same to me,' he said. ‘Joking. She was kinda pale, like not super-tanned. Her face was thin. I think her hair was sort of light brown – she had a helmet on but there was a bit poking out at the front
–
and also her eyebrows weren't either really dark or really pale, so yeah, I'd be saying light brown.'

‘Age?' Ella said.

‘Pretty old. Forty or fifty.'

‘Anything else stand out? Tattoos, jewellery, clothes?'

He thought for a moment, turning a pedal in his hand. ‘Dark clothes, I think. Nothing really jumps out. I don't remember any tatts or anything.'

Ella took the photos of Stacey and of the cyclist from her jacket pocket. She showed him Stacey first. ‘Is that her?'

He looked then shook his head. ‘Nope.'

‘You're sure?' Murray said.

‘Completely.'

‘What about this?' She held out the picture of the cyclist. It was the still shot that showed part of the face.

‘Yeah, that's her. Same black helmet and everything.'

‘Do you remember anything about the bike?' Murray asked.

‘The wheels were little,' Olivier said. ‘And it seemed tall and wobbly. I thought she was going to fall off.'

‘Because you yelled at her?'

‘No, we were still behind her then. We came around the corner and she was wobbling out to go around the car. That's why we had to swerve.'

‘Wobbling as if she wasn't used to it?' Ella said.

‘Yeah, maybe.'

‘How did she react when you shouted?'

‘She just looked at me. Maybe she didn't hear it over the music. We had it up pretty loud.'

‘Mackenzie said she didn't hear what you yelled,' Ella said.

‘She wouldn't have. It was that loud.'

Made sense, Ella thought.

‘So you think she had something to do with what happened to that lady you mentioned?' Olivier asked.

‘We're not sure yet,' Ella said. ‘Why doesn't Mackenzie's mother like you?'

‘She found pot in Mac's room and Mac told her it was mine.'

‘And why doesn't your mum like her?'

‘She found pot in my room and I told her it was Mac's.' He grinned, then added quickly, ‘But neither of us smoke it any more so there's no point rousting us or anything.'

‘So were you really going to KFC yesterday?' Murray said.

Olivier nodded. ‘I swear.'

‘You swear,' Ella said. She got out her card. ‘Thanks for your help, and if you remember anything else about the woman, or her bike, give us a call.'

NINE

E
lla and Murray went back to the office, updated their reports, then headed home. Ella walked in her front door at nine thirty and put the kettle on with a sigh. The night was cool and quiet, a relief after the busyness of the day. Finding out that the cyclist was a woman was great, but it hadn't brought them any closer to working out who exactly she was or where Stacey might be. And the whole thing with James and Rowan bugged her.

The kettle whistled. She made a cup of tea and took it and her mobile out to the plastic outdoor setting in her backyard.
The sky had cleared.
She dried a chair with a rag, then sat down.

Was James genuinely suspicious of Rowan when he asked Paris about him and Stacey, or was he joking, as he'd said? And it could simply be chance that Rowan had found her car, but when combined with his actions in going to see her friends, particularly when they weren't also his friends (and who remembered an address after going there once three years ago?), it didn't really look like it. Then there was Marie and whatever weird thing she had going on, and Willetts from over the road, and the anonymous complaint about James's computer shop.

She drew in a breath, held it, then let it slowly out. She needed to sleep tonight, and wrestling with the case more than necessary wasn't going to help. She shook her shoulders and looked around the dim yard. The grass was getting long; time to borrow her father's mower again. Franco used to come around and do it himself, putting the mower in the boot for the short drive from Chullora, then pottering around the yard humming, but he'd become frailer in the last year or so and she'd taken to bringing the mower over herself. Franco often came too, and so did her mother, Netta, the two of them trying to talk to her over the mower's roar, then sitting down together for lunch at the end. That made her think about tomorrow's dinner again.

She stretched her neck to work out the kinks, had a sip of tea, then called Callum.

‘Hi,' he answered in a whisper after the first ring.

‘You're still there? How's it going?'

‘You can probably imagine. How about you? Did you find her?'

‘Not yet.' The words were hollow.

‘Do they know yet if the blood is hers?'

‘The DNA's not back yet, but it's the same type. The hairs we found match hers too.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘Me too,' she said. ‘Listen. Assuming she's still alive, how would she be?' She couldn't not ask.

‘Depends. If the bleeding was stopped by someone putting firm pressure on the wound, either with their hand or with a decent pad and bandage, but she's had no treatment, like IV fluid replacement, she'll be weak, faint, prone to passing out if she stands or perhaps even if she sits up. She might be vomiting, her heart rate and breathing would rise, her blood pressure would fall, she'd be pale and sweaty and probably quite anxious. If the wound was left alone, just allowed to keep bleeding with no treatment whatsoever, she would experience all these things more and more until she got to the point where she'd pass out even while lying flat, and then at some point, I'm sorry to say, she would die.'

Ella couldn't find anything to say.

‘But look,' he said, ‘even the dimmest dimwit knows enough to stop bleeding. And whoever took her must've done so for a reason. She has to be more use to them alive than dead, otherwise they would've killed her straight away. Wouldn't they?'

‘Probably,' she said after a moment.

‘So she's more than likely not feeling great, but not getting worse either. She's probably too weak to make an escape from wherever they have her, but given a few days' rest and food and water, she might be able to think about it.'

‘If she's not tied up,' Ella said. ‘If she's not behind locked doors.'

They were silent, then he said, ‘So, tomorrow night. I'll pick you up on my way through?'

‘I wanted to talk to you about that.'

‘It'll be okay,' he said.

‘You don't know what Adelina's like. She'll grill you like you're dinner. She'll ask whatever's on her mind, no matter how personal.'

‘I'll be brave if you'll hold my hand.'

She laughed but felt no better. ‘I'm serious.'

‘I'm serious too,' he said. ‘Hold my hand and it'll be okay.'

She closed her eyes. Maybe there'd be a break in the case; maybe she'd have to work back and dinner could be cancelled.

‘I promise,' Callum was saying.

‘Okay.' She heard him fight back a yawn. ‘Guess I'd better let you go.'

‘In a sec,' he said. ‘I saw you on the news tonight, standing near the car.'

‘I hope I looked more intelligent than I feel.'

‘You looked perfect,' he said. ‘Absolutely perfect.'

She smiled.

*

Rowan wiped down the sink and benches, listening to Megan and Simon dealing with Emelia's usual bedtime shenanigans upstairs. It was dark outside, and he couldn't see past his reflection in the kitchen window. The knock at the front door startled him. He opened it to find James standing there, red-eyed, rumpled and blinking in the porch light.

‘Rowan,' he said, and Rowan smelled beer on his breath. ‘Can I come in?'

They sat at the kitchen table. Emelia's crying rang through the house.

‘Poor little thing,' James said.

Rowan closed the door to shut out the sound, and got James a glass of water.

‘Sorry for just dropping by,' he said. ‘I've been out driving. Looking, I guess. Though I don't
even
know where to start.' He gripped the glass in both hands. ‘How could someone do this? Take her away like this?'

‘I don't know,' Rowan said.

‘The cops asked me about business competitors, and about that complaint.' James's face was oily and greenish in the fluorescent light. ‘And that made me think of the conference, hundreds of computer people schmoozing, and all that time was one of them behind it? Was one of them watching me and knowing what was happening to Stace? Was he even talking to me, shaking my hand? Looking me in the eye like he was my friend while he was betraying me?'

‘Are they certain it's that?'

‘No, they're not certain, but what else could it be? Now whoever's got her is sending these text messages about telling the truth, about doing the right thing if I want to see her again. If it's some crazy patient she looked after, why would he blame me?'

‘To throw off the police?' Rowan said.

‘But how would the crazy even know about the complaint?' He got up to pace. Rowan could hear him grinding his teeth. ‘All that blood, Rowan. How can she survive that?'

‘It's possible,' Rowan said. ‘The human body –'

‘And the car being there,' James went on. ‘Why was the car there? Why
there
? And you noticed it. Why you?' He turned to face him. ‘Why you?'

‘Coincidence is a weird thing,' Rowan found himself saying. ‘It looks like it means something when it doesn't.'

James's gaze was hard. ‘You'd tell me if you knew where she was. Right?'

‘Of course I would. You know that.' Rowan could feel himself reddening. ‘You know me. I'm your friend. I want her home safe as much as you do.'

‘You wouldn't lie to me, would you?' James took a step towards him. The water slopped out of the glass in his shaking hand. ‘You wouldn't have anything to do with this, would you?'

‘James,' Rowan said. ‘I'm your friend. I'm telling you the truth. I don't know where Stacey is or what's happened. I swear on my sons' lives.'

James stared at him a moment longer then blinked as if waking up, and glanced at the ceiling, through which Emelia's muffled cries still came. ‘Of course. I'm sorry. I don't know where my head's at. I can't think straight.' He turned to the sink and the glass slipped in his hand.

Rowan heard it break then saw blood drip to the floor. ‘Jesus, did you just cut yourself?'

‘It's just a graze.' James squeezed his finger. Blood trickled across his palm.

‘I'll get the first-aid kit.' Rowan hurried to the bathroom and grabbed the kit from under the sink. Back in the kitchen, he made James sit down at the table then looked at his hand. The cut was small, on the side of his index finger, and steadily oozed blood. It didn't need stitches.

‘I can't even concentrate enough not to hurt myself,' James said, as Rowan applied Steri-strips. ‘I'm so sorry for what I said.'

‘Forget it.' Rowan covered the wound with a dressing and taped it into place. ‘With what you're going through it's completely understandable.'

The door opened and Simon and Megan came in. Megan went to James and hugged him.

‘We thought we heard voices. How are you?' she said. ‘I'm so sorry about Stacey. The police were here this afternoon asking me stuff about her. They're really serious about it. What'd you do to your hand?'

‘What stuff?' James said.

‘Just about her and Rowan and our family, about how well I know you and her, stuff like that,' Megan said.

‘Covering all the bases,' Rowan said. ‘Thorough.'

James nodded. ‘Yes. Well, it's good to have friends like you guys at a time like this.' He took Simon's outstretched hand.

‘Whatever we can do,' Simon said.

James wiped his eyes. ‘Thank you.'

Megan ran the tap to wash the blood down the sink. ‘James, I got paid today, so we finally have the bond money.' Her voice was bright with excitement. ‘We're ready to go whenever your friend is.'

But Rowan could see that James wasn't really listening. ‘There's no rush,' he said.

‘Well –' Megan began.

‘Another time,' Rowan said.

James leaned against the bench, his hands gripping the edge of the sink behind him, his eyes haunted. ‘What if I never see her again?'

*

After a night of bad dreams about Stacey being lost and hurt, and about patients with symptoms she couldn't understand no matter how hard she tried, Paris had a headache when she headed to The Rocks ambulance station early in the morning. She wanted to get in before Rowan, wanted to be checking the ambulance when he arrived, was determined to show him that she had a handle on everything. But when she walked up the driveway, she saw his car was already there.

He was standing in the lounge with Joe and Mick, the pair bleary-eyed from nightshift, watching the morning newsreader talk about Stacey's disappearance. There was footage of her car being taken away from the Playland car park on a flatbed truck and of police going in and out of nearby businesses, then a photo of Stacey and James on a beach, then one of her smiling that Paris recognised as having been taken at one of the family barbecues; she could even make out her mother's arm in the background.

The report was the same rehashing she'd seen before she left home, when her mother had been slumped on the lounge in her dressing gown, cup of coffee going cold in her hand.

‘You're not going to work?' Paris had asked her.

‘I've taken leave,' Marie had retorted. ‘Yours isn't the only job that can look after its staff.'

Paris had let that slide. ‘How was James?'

When Marie had come home at ten the night before, Paris had still been awake and feeling a little better after her evening with Liam and Abby and Lucy, but she hadn't called out.

‘How do you think?' Marie said.

Paris had turned away at the hostility in her voice, and wondered now if Marie was still on the lounge watching the TV.

‘Hey,' Joe said, seeing her in the doorway. ‘We didn't know if you'd be in today. Are you okay?'

‘Okay enough,' Paris said.

Rowan glanced at her, then back at the TV. It was impossible to tell whether the cops had told him what she'd said about James's question. The idea that he might think she'd taken it seriously, that she'd imagined he and Stacey might've got together, made her feel awkward. She left the room and got her bag from her locker. She opened their ambulance and switched on the internal fluorescent lights, then climbed into the back. Six weeks down and the truck was more familiar but still not the ‘home' that Stacey had once described it as. Paris got out the checklist Rowan made her keep in her bag. He'd declared on her first day that by the third week she should know how to check the equipment without it, but when she didn't, and after she twice forgot to check and restock the oxygen masks and once left a different empty cylinder unchanged, he'd photocopied the form and thrust it into her hand. ‘I sign here,' he'd said, pointing to the box at the bottom of the columns, the words
when you do it right
left unsaid. She wondered if there'd be changes after last week's cylinder episode, whether he'd present her with another checklist or maybe insist on watching as she worked.
Not that you don't deserve it
, she thought.

He came out as she was repacking the intubation kit. She put it away and made sure he saw her ticking the form.

‘Going all right?' he said.

‘Yep.'

He opened the linen locker then closed it. ‘How's your mum?'

‘She's okay.'

‘She go in to work?'

Paris shook her head. ‘She's taken some time off.'

Rowan sat on the end of the stretcher. She felt his eyes on her as she checked the drug box. She counted ampoules of local anaesthetic with focused zeal.

He said, ‘You know you can take compassionate leave. If you want.'

‘I know.' But here was better than home, and in some way it felt important to keep going.

‘Paris,' Rowan said, but the ringing of the station phone cut him off.

Mick answered it in the muster room, listened, then came outside. ‘Collapse in Alfred Street Macca's.'