A Time to Run (17 page)

Gavin hesitated then relented, sitting in an armchair opposite Barry.

‘OK, so what do you need to know?' he asked.

‘What happened that afternoon before Samantha left?' Barry asked.

‘We had an argument. We were both angry. I took the dog for a run. When I came back, about a couple of hours later, Sammi was gone. I had settled down by then and tried to call her but she wouldn't take my calls.'

‘What did you argue about?' Barry asked.

‘Nothing really. Nothing important,' Gavin answered.

‘So what was it? Money? Work?' Barry asked.

‘I suggested we combine our bank accounts. She didn't want to, and I accused her of not trusting me. That's about it.'

‘Did it get violent?' Barry asked.

‘No!' Gavin replied emphatically. He wasn't a wife-beater and didn't like to be thought of in those terms. ‘I've never laid a finger on her. We both yell at each other, that's about it.'

‘Do you trust her?' Barry asked.

‘Yes. Completely. We've been together for three years. It wouldn't have lasted that long if we didn't trust each other. She just got the shits because I wanted her to change to my bank,' Gavin answered. He hated the feeling of having to justify his emotions to some stranger.

Barry changed tack. ‘Do you know many people in Brisbane?' he asked.

‘No, not really. A couple of old school mates live down there.'

‘Do you go down there often?'

‘No. If there's a reason to go, I'll drive down. Need my GPS though,' Gavin answered.

‘Ever been to Forest Lake?' Barry asked.

‘Is that where that bitch Candy lives? We visited her once.'

‘You don't like Candy?' At any other time, this may have been an offhand question, but today it carried some weight and Gavin immediately regretted what he'd called her.

‘No, never really took to her. And if she had stuck together with Sammi, made sure she got home OK instead of slutting around with a couple of strangers, we probably wouldn't be sitting here. So, yes, I called her a bitch just now. She came out yesterday, apologised and left again. I've had nothing else to do with her.'

‘You mentioned the barman earlier on. Ever heard of him before?'

Gavin gave Barry a hard look.

‘No,' he said slowly. ‘You think I'm involved with him?' Gavin asked in a low, icy tone.

‘We just need all the information we can get,' Barry said.

‘Is this an interview?' Gavin's anger started to build as he saw which way Barry's ‘enquiries' were headed. That's why these two detectives had travelled up from Brisbane for this. None of the local blokes would have treated him this way.

‘No, we're just . . .' Barry started but Gavin cut him off as another thought occurred to him.

‘Are you recording this?' Although he was a mechanic by trade, Gavin had been around the police for long enough to know some of the tricks and techniques.

‘Yeah,' Barry said, giving a nonchalant shrug as he met Gavin's icy stare. ‘You'd have to know that's pretty standard these days. I'm sure Samantha carries a recorder at work.'

‘Well you can turn it off. There's nothing I can tell you that I haven't already told the local guys. I don't like being treated like a suspect,' Gavin spat the last word out. How dare these men come into his house and insinuate he helped make his girlfriend disappear.

‘So you're saying you don't want to answer any more of my questions?' Barry said. Again, it was a loaded question. Gavin was unsure if he could step his way out of this minefield. These men were doing what they did best – ask questions, provoke answers. All Gavin wanted to do was kick them out of his house and send them on their way.

‘I had nothing to do with Sammi going missing. I love her, I want her back. That's the bottom line,' Gavin said, carefully enunciating each word.

‘All we're trying to do is get all the information we can so we have the best chance of finding Samantha,' Barry said.

‘It's Sammi, everyone calls her Sammi. You'd know that if you knew anything about this case. You know nothing about her, you know nothing about me,' he said tetchily.

This was starting to turn into a pointless conversation. He didn't have any of the information they thought they might get from him. If he asked them to leave, that would put a whole different slant on the meeting, and they would draw conclusions that didn't exist.

‘Hey, Gavin?' A voice called out from the front door and Gavin recognised it with relief.

‘Tom,' he called out, ‘come in, mate.'

Tom appeared, dressed in a faded T-shirt and baggy shorts.

‘Everything OK?' He spoke to Gavin, but was clearly evaluating the two detectives.

‘These two gentlemen are from the Homicide Squad,' Gavin said.

Tom's head snapped around when he heard the word ‘homicide'. Gavin shook his head at the unspoken question.

Both men rose to their feet, shaking Tom's hand and introducing themselves.

‘Tom works with Sammi,' Gavin said. He wanted them to know he had someone in his corner now.

‘Has there been some news?' Tom asked.

‘No,' Gavin answered. ‘These gentlemen are just running their enquiries, trying to find out if I was involved in Sammi's disappearance. Tom, would you mind just clarifying that for them,' Gavin said with mock politeness.

Tom put his hand on Gavin's shoulder.

‘Mate, don't take it personally. You were always going to be a suspect. That is, for anyone who doesn't know you.'

He turned to the detectives who had remained standing. Just by his age and demeanour, Tom had ‘constable' written all over him.

‘Look, there's no way Gavin is involved in Sammi's disappearance. I vouch for him personally.'

The two detectives exchanged glances.

Barry extended his hand to Gavin. ‘Thank you for your time, Gavin. We'll let you know if we make any progress.'

Gavin shook both men's hands and said nothing more till they were out the front door. He breathed out deeply and his shoulders, which had been squared against the intruders, dropped.

‘Those arseholes!' he said to Tom. ‘God, you couldn't have come at a better time.'

‘I was on my way to the shops,' Tom said. ‘But when I saw some D car I didn't recognise out the front of your house, I thought I better check in on you. Were they really trying to get something on you?' Tom was animated and talking slightly faster than usual.

Gavin nodded. ‘They wouldn't come out and say it but that was what they were getting at.'

‘That must have been why nobody knew they were coming. They would have known we'd all be on your side,' Tom said.

‘Thanks . . .' Gavin said, and all of a sudden he couldn't trust his voice not to break up. Tom reached and over and squeezed his shoulder again.

‘Come on, let's go,' he said.

‘Where to?' Gavin asked.

‘Anywhere but here.'

Sunday 11:20 am

It was so much easier nowadays, thought Bill, with technology. Twenty years ago it was typewritten statements filed somewhere, and hours to wait until photos were processed and hand-delivered. These days it was quick and effective. One of the detectives at the new crime scene at Yonga State Forest had taken photos of the remains they had found and sent them through to Bill's phone. Missing Persons had emailed through the report number and now he could instantly compare the clothing from the scene with the description of the clothing worn by the missing prostitute.

It was by no means conclusive, and there would have to be forensic examinations – DNA matching with a relative if they could find one and possibly a viewing by the friend who had reported her missing to confirm that the personal effects belonged to the missing woman.

Bill had a report that said she was wearing silver heels, a black mini skirt and a yellow blouse tied at the waist. Also a digital watch, a must-have for ladies who charged by the hour, and some thin silver necklaces and bracelets. He had a photo of a shoe with some silver still visible at the heel, a scrap of black material, some yellow buttons and some pieces of silver chain. It wasn't conclusive and the objects did not meet any required standard of evidence, but Bill was willing to put money down that it was the missing prostitute they'd found in that shallow grave at Yonga.

He called Janine into his office and showed her what he had.

‘So this is the prostitute he was the last to see, and said he had dropped back to her street corner?' Janine confirmed.

‘It certainly looks that way,' Bill said.

‘That was nearly four years ago from memory. Do you think he's been active all that time?' she asked.

‘Hard to tell. But I think we might have pinpointed a second location,' Bill said.

‘You think he took Sammi out to the bush at Yonga?' Janine asked.

‘It's a very good chance, don't you think?' Bill answered.

Janine thought for a moment, twirling a pen between her finger and thumb.

‘No, not necessarily. What about the maps at his house? Captain's Creek would suit his purposes much better. It is a larger parcel of land and further away from civilisation. I'm banking that's where he took her,' Janine said.

‘These people generally return to the same place. They need to have intimate knowledge of their surroundings. They don't choose somewhere at random,' Bill said.

‘Yes, but the prostitute was years ago. The remains were found relatively close to a track used by other people. It was too risky, so he changed his location,' Janine argued.

‘Were there maps of Yonga at his house?' Bill queried.

‘Yes, I'm pretty sure there were some printouts of that one. But the maps concentrated on Captain's Creek,' Janine said.

It was Bill's turn to mull things over.

‘I'll try to get a search started in both locations. I'll contact the Inspector and get things moving. It will be easy to get a search approved for Yonga because of the body. They'll search for anything connected to that scene, but hopefully they'll turn up something to do with Sammi. They'll get the SES out for sure for that one. But probably the most we can rustle up for Captain's Creek is for a couple of park rangers to start driving around,' Bill said.

‘That would be better than nothing,' Janine said.

‘I'll ring the boss,' Bill replied.

Sunday 11:22 am

Sammi woke to a hundred points of pain. Sticks and rocks jabbed into her at all angles. She groaned a little and stretched. She had been too tired to notice how uncomfortable it was when she fell asleep.

She tried to put her arms down from where her hands had cradled her head and found her right arm had gone to sleep. She used her left hand to massage her shoulder. She sat up slowly, her back muscles aching and her skin tingling. She looked at the backs of her hands. They were marked in red with crazy patterns where leaves and twigs had pressed against them. She rubbed each hand.

She pulled her feet up and found her legs had been replaced by those of a ninety year old. Everything ached and twinged. She stretched, pointing her toes and reaching her hands to the sky, before cautiously climbing to her feet.

She wasn't sure if the nap had made her feel better or worse. Mentally she felt more alert and better able to cope, but physically she had so many more aches and pains. She checked her watch. She had slept for over two hours. It was not enough.

She tried to concentrate, to make a plan. She was not injured. She had water nearby. She had slept. Food was the difference between life and death right now. It had been nearly two days since she had eaten anything. Eating pizza in Candy's kitchen was a distant memory, like something imagined. Since then, she had been tipsy and drugged, had thrown up and run for her life. She had to give her body some fuel. There was another cold night looming. Sammi shivered involuntarily just thinking about it. She knew that she could not make it through another night. Once the temperature dropped and the uncontrollable shivering started, it wouldn't take long for fatigue to knock her down. She knew very little about bush tucker. It was probably more dangerous to eat random berries than to starve. Could she catch a bird or a small animal?

A drink would have to do in the meantime. Sammi took her bearings against the creek and walked to the bank. She bent down to the water, drinking from her cupped hands. The water tasted sweet, its coolness pleasant. She stood at the edge of the creek and stretched her arms high in the air, feeling her spine release and lengthen.

When she dropped her head, pushing her chin to her chest, movement caught her eye. There was one, no two, small fish in the water in front of her. They darted this way and that through the water, silver when the sunlight hit them. Sammi liked fish. Even sushi.

The water was too deep to step into but Sammi saw a submerged log just past the edge of the creek bank. Her sharp stick in hand, she stepped onto the log. The water came up to just past her ankle. The log was cold and slimy, and she gripped it with her toes. She dipped the tip of the stick in the water. The fish disappeared as soon as her foot had appeared in the water so Sammi held completely still, only her eyes flicking back and forth.

Both fish reappeared, flitting out from a ledge under the creek bank, then back again. Sammi concentrated on keeping the tip of the stick still in the water. That was the only thing she could remember from an old documentary she had watched – keep part of the spear in the water so your eyes can make allowance for the refraction of the water. The fish rushed past again, close to the tip of the spear. It was becoming part of their surroundings.

Sammi's arm started to shake slightly from holding the stick steady. The next time the fish swam close, Sammi lunged. She snapped her arm from the elbow, driving the spear down. The fish darted aside and the stick passed harmlessly past them. Sammi rocked forward, losing purchase with her toes. The stick hit the creek bed and Sammi grabbed at it with her other hand, trying to balance herself against it. But her foot slid off the log completely. She jumped before she fell, entering the cold water with a gasp. It came up to her waist. Both her shorts and her shirt were now wet. She hauled herself up the bank and out of the water.

Her shudder turned into a shiver and the reality of what she had just done hit her. What the hell was she thinking? Did she really think she could spear a tiny fish with a pointy stick?

Sammi moved away from the creek bank and back into the bushes. She slowly took off her clothes and tried to wring every drop of water out of them. Stupid.

Sunday 11:45 am

There wasn't much trouble in Rolleston. The small community hardly needed the police officer stationed there. It was easy to be lazy there and that suited Senior Constable Gerry Pinkham. He had applied for the spot because he would be in charge of himself plus it included a rent-free service residence next to the station. He got the spot because no one else applied. Didn't bother him. He was here now.

Gerry started his shift as always, wandering in from his house twenty minutes late with a coffee in his hand. He fumbled with the keys at the back door to the station, spilling coffee down his shirt.

‘Fuck,' he muttered, looking at the brown stain on the light blue shirt. He could have walked back across to his house and changed shirts, but he didn't. He only had three shirts that still fit him – he had to suck in his gut to get the buttons done up on all the older ones – and he was pretty sure the other two were in the wash. He wiped at the stain with the back of his hand. It'd do. Everyone around here knew him anyway. They knew what to expect.

He walked into the small front room, which served as his office as well as the front counter. He didn't bother unlocking the front door to the station. If someone wanted him, they'd just start knocking.

He logged onto the computer and checked his internal email, to see if there was anything interesting from around the state. He paused when he clicked on the BOLO for missing police officer Samantha Willis. He studied her picture, clearly her official academy photo, to see if he knew her. He didn't recognise the name or the face but still felt a pang of curiosity tinged with pity. She must be dead-set in the shit for them to do a statewide bulletin like this.

It listed Donald Black as a ‘person of interest', but everyone knew that meant ‘suspect'. Black's mugshot was unremarkable, but the white 4WD ute with the custom canopy and roo bar in the front was not. The number plate was irrelevant, that vehicle had enough extra details to make it stand out. If located, treat as a crime scene, the bulletin said. Gerry snorted. That went without saying.

Gerry printed it out and put it in his work folder, then headed out to his car. He was counting down the hours till his holidays started and had decided to make the time go a bit quicker by doing some laps of the highway with the radar and his ticket book. It was easy work. He had become good at choosing who to write up and who to give a warning to – he seldom had a ticket contested.

He did a couple of slow laps through town then headed north on the highway. He wasn't far out of town when he switched on the mobile radar. The radar buzzed making its calculations as each oncoming vehicle approached. Gerry split his attention between the numbers flashing on the screen of the radar and the road. Everyone seemed to be behaving themselves today.

On slow days like this, he would occasionally intercept a car for just being a bit over the speed limit. He'd do a random breath test and chat with the driver a bit, if they didn't seem in too much of a hurry, just to break the monotony. Often they were locals anyway, people he knew. They were happy to pass the time of day if it meant no ticket for their fifteen kilometres per hour over the speed limit.

An approaching vehicle caught his eye. The radar said it wasn't speeding, but he watched it, swivelling his head as it zoomed past his window. White 4WD ute, roo bar, homemade canopy, one male driver on board.

Fuck
. For one moment, he considered ignoring it, pretending he hadn't seen the bulletin or didn't recognise the vehicle. No one would know.

Except for him. He would know. He would always know. He had taken an oath. Serve and protect.

Fuck.
He squeezed the brakes and wrenched hard to the right on the steering wheel. The rear wheels slid off the shoulder of the road and the back end of the police car fishtailed slightly as the wheels found traction and the car pulled back onto the bitumen. It was a manoeuvre Gerry had done a thousand times before, pulling over speeders, but his heart starting beating double time as he slammed his foot on the accelerator to catch up to the ute.

He glanced towards the passenger seat and pulled the BOLO out of his work folder as he closed in on the ute. It had not sped up or taken any evasive action. That was a good sign. What the fuck was a cop kidnapper doing in friggin' Rolleston? Of all the highways across Queensland, why did this cockhead have to choose one in his division?

Gerry confirmed the rego and cursed again. He had to get this right. The Ds would be all over this like stink on a monkey. Any error on his part would be picked up, scrutinised and condemned.
Fuck.

He grabbed the police radio. He paused briefly. He was committing himself to the intercept now. He was a senior constable with eighteen years' experience. This was his job. This was what he had been trained for.

He called through the rego of the car, trying to control the quaver in his voice so it sounded like a normal check, one of many he might do in a day. There was a pause before he got the reply back from Communications. Their screen would be lit up like a Christmas tree with alerts and warnings on that rego.

‘Do you know who you've got there?' the Comms operator asked tentatively.

‘Yep, just confirming.' It was often better not to put all the details over the radio. The media had scanners, and this needed to be done as quietly as possible.

‘I'm on the Dawson Highway about ten kilometres north of Rolleston. I'm going to attempt to intercept the vehicle. Send some back-up,' Gerry said.

Another lengthy pause from Comms. He could imagine them arguing over whether he should intercept or wait for help.

‘Proceed with caution and we'll need a sit-rep as soon as possible,' Comms replied.

Gerry took a deep breath and concentrated on the vehicle in front of him. In the background Comms called for another unit to back him up immediately. Someone would come, of that he was certain. Coppers stuck together out west. Everyone knew what it was like to work one-up.

He looked for a good spot to attempt the intercept. They were on a straight stretch of highway, not much shoulder on the road to pull over on but plenty of visibility for any cars going past. He couldn't see through the canopy but was certain he'd seen only a bloke behind the wheel and no one in the passenger seat. The ute was still travelling normally, no sign that he might want to do a runner. No point. No way he'd be able to outrun the police sedan in that old ute.