After Ariel: It started as a game (28 page)

Then one night, the family went out, leaving Benji in the yard. Greatly daring, Dingo went up to the fence and leaned over to pat the excited dog. The light from a nearby street lamp revealed a half-open window.  He longed to get closer, to share just for a few moments the family warmth which emanated from that house.  He looked around, and seeing no one, quietly opened the front gate, slipped inside and closed it. Benji trotted helpfully beside him as he stepped slowly onto the verandah and, keeping close to the shadowed wall, worked his way around to the window. 

A light had been left on somewhere in the house. The dim glow revealed a single bed against the far wall on which posters of well known cricketers were displayed. A jumble of clothes sprawled across the bed and on the floor he could make out a gym bag with a tennis racket lying half out. A desk with a computer and a backpack stood against the left wall.

Suddenly, Dingo was inside the room. He didn’t remember sliding over the windowsill but now he was in he was compelled to explore, his senses alert for any sound of the family returning. He knew he would get into terrible trouble, probably be arrested and Frances would beat him senseless, but the warmth and essence of the family drew him like a hummingbird to nectar. Benji stood on his hind legs with forepaws on the sill and looked on in approval.

He couldn’t help touching things – a basket of knitting by an armchair – a blue sweater for someone, a book on the coffee table, bookmark saving the place, a tea cup left on the draining board in the kitchen and stroking the plump tabby cat curled up in an armchair. Moving faster, conscious of time passing, he slipped down the hallway, past what was obviously the little girl’s bedroom, pausing at the family bathroom, breathing in the scent of talcum powder, moist towels. A little way along was the parent’s room where shaded lamps glowed either side of the double bed.

 A man’s blue sweater lay on the bed. He picked it up and buried his nose in the folds, drinking in the folds of – a father. He could barely remember Marcus. The terrible storm and collapse of the shed which took his father’s life was the most vivid recollection, though he could just remember the smell of horse sweat, leather and sheep and the security of his father’s arms holding him on the pommel of the saddle as they followed the sheep the last few kilometres to the yards.

A sound outside sent him back along the hallway, running lightly into the son’s bedroom and over to the window. Was that a car turning into the driveway? He could hear Benji barking out the front. Terrified, Dingo dropped the sweater on the floor, slid out of the window, crouched and ran for the backyard where he hid behind shrubs near the boundary fence.

Headlights cut a swath across the lawn and what he knew was the family’s 4WD pulled up at the front gate. Benji went berserk with joy. Moving faster than he had ever in his life, Dingo raced for the high, wooden back fence, leapt up, caught the top and hauled himself up and over, just before the dog remembered him and rushed down the garden looking for a game.

‘Benji! What’s the matter, you stupid dog? Come back here!’

‘He’s probably chasing a possum, Wally. Come and help mum with the groceries!’

Breathing heavily, Dingo ran down the road, praying no one had seen or heard him. At the bottom of the street, he slowed to a walk, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket and slouched home, forcing himself not to panic.

He was never so happy to be home than that night, but it didn’t stop there. Breaking into
homes
– not houses – to touch, to be part of family life became a secret addiction. When he grew up, he realised that it was only by proxy that he knew how families “worked.” That his home life was tragic hadn’t occurred to him until he started mixing with the teens after dark. The nights that he managed to sneak out tired him for the next day, but he forced himself to keep up the facade and practice the hours his mother demanded. When Frances had her afternoon nap, her son caught up on his sleep.

He rarely thought about the death of the baby after he’d finally managed to tell the police what happened that day when he was eight. They’d written it all down and his mother had signed in his name. Frances told him that she had to go to the Coroner’s Inquest and give evidence. ‘You’re lucky you didn’t get thrown in gaol, you little shit,’ she’d roared, shoving him roughly.

A couple of fat women from Children’s Services wearing thick stockings and sensible shoes, had come to see them, talked in low tones to his mother while they drank vast amounts of tea and scoffed all the scones she had made. They left after exhorting him to practice his music. He didn’t mind, because music was his only relief from the grinding emotional poverty allotted him. By the time he turned thirteen, he’d worked out that the women going into the garden and leaving the baby alone was their own fault. That he was socially inept was the fault of his mother – in fact, everything that was negative in his life was someone else’s fault. And as long as he kept counting, he could maintain control.

CHAPTER 28

No News is Good News?

Susan

Tuesday, 8.30AM

‘Guess who got released yesterday afternoon?’

‘Oh no.’

‘Yes, GrantWinslow’s back on the streets and no doubt looking for trouble –’

‘And if there isn’t any, he’ll make some!’ I finished for Evan, who was looking less than impressed. Juvenile would be furious.

Sighing, I joined the team in the Incident Room.

‘Okay, we’ve got a name for our Jane Doe, Ariel Maxwell, identified by her parents yesterday afternoon. We’ve released her photo to the media and as you would all know, it was splashed all over the Courier Mail this morning. We need to intensify our enquiries around the park and it seems Ariel went there frequently.’

We spent the next three-quarters of an hour re-hashing, speculating and cursing the case. Those of us who were the parents of teenage girls felt pressure to chase down the killer, those  who weren’t, regarded it as one more sad challenge.

‘Now, our first port of call is the Maxwell’s and then we’ll deal with Humphries. Right, Jacob and Sym take the Maxwell’s residence. Pay particular attention to Ariel’s bedroom. Fingerprints’ll follow you in.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Someone
must
have seen the girl when she came in on the bus from Sydney. Check the bus timetable, you might get lucky and the bus driver could be home or at the station. Trains – you know what to do – and Gerry, just in case, find out if she flew up. A long shot, but not unlikely. Now, someone needs to canvas the shops nearest the Maxwells. If she had a bloke with her, then it’s likely they got takeaway. The parents say Ariel wasn’t much of a cook.’ I sent two more of the team members out then turned my attention to my Senior Sergeant, who was writing in his notebook. I had the sense he was hoping to be overlooked.
No such luck, gorgeous.

‘Any more on Pamela Miller?’ I could have sworn he blushed.

‘No, Ma’am, and no further problems with a prowler.’
And how would you know that? Hm.

My team scattered in all directions, chattering among themselves.
We’re missing something, I just know it.
If Ariel Maxwell’s murder didn’t tie in with the Humphries’ killing, I’d eat my hat. Granted one happened in the morning and one late at night the same day, but until we found the link we couldn’t prove a thing. Before I could get a cup of coffee and prepare for a team briefing on the Humphries’ murder, I got a message. ‘Susan, the Super wants to see you!’

Sighing, I gathered my notes and headed off to give an update on the investigation. 

Superintendent Peterson lurked in an enviably large office on the other side of the level, overlooking the river. A tall, imposing man, he looks every bit the avuncular person he is – until you do something wrong.

‘Right, Susan, so what’s the update on the Maxwell murder?’

I brought him up to speed and then ventured to expound my theories about a link between the Humphries and Maxwell cases. He looked sceptical. ‘It’s a long jump from a teenager murdered on Saturday morning to a thirty-three year old photojournalist late Saturday night. Apart from them being in the same area within twenty-four hours, you’ve nothing more to link them.’ He stared at me over the top of his reading glasses. ‘However, I am aware of the numerous times that your gut feeling has steered you in the right direction and this time may be no exception. I have every confidence in your skills.’

For a man who rarely smiled or gave praise, I was taken aback to be treated to both. He didn’t miss much either.

‘I believe your new Senior Sergeant is showing interest in one of the persons involved in the Humphries case.’

‘Where did you hear that, sir?’

‘No one told me, I overheard a couple of your team discussing it outside the toilets.’

‘Ah. Well, Pamela Miller is no longer a POI and I’ve already had a chat with Anthony. He’s a very professional officer and won’t do anything to sully the case.’

‘I’ll accept your assurances, Susan. I know you’ll make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.’

We parted amicably and I headed back out to the office checking my texts.  Nothing from David. I went into my cubby hole and picked up the phone. Peter Moffatt had better be available or I’d skin him alive. His phone rang out. Frightened, I dialled again. This time it picked up.

‘Moffat.’

‘Pete, it’s Susan. What’s happening with David? He usually texts me twice a day when he’s away and rings me at night. I haven’t had anything since last night’s contact. Is he on an assignment?’

A telling silence followed. Then he sighed. ‘He’s just
busy
. I’m sure he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.’ His tone indicated I was being a typical hysterical woman and confirmed for me what I suspected. David
was
undercover and Peter his handler.
Damn them.

I said goodbye, trying not to tell him that I knew what they were up to. Nausea rose in my stomach; I rushed for the washroom.

When I came out, Evan was standing in the corridor holding a clipboard. ‘Susan, what’s happened?’

Exhausted, I leaned against the wall. ‘Nothing desperate. I haven’t heard from David today and he’s usually in touch when he’s away.’ Evan was the only officer on my team who knew what I suspected about David’s job over the range.

‘Well, no news is good news, as they say,’ said Evan dryly.
He knows something.

 I allowed myself to be guided back to the office.

‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. They’re not going to tell you anything even though you are a police officer. I know it’s impossible for you not to be concerned, but David is strong and clever. Whatever he’s doing, he won’t let them get him.’ Evan looked me in the eye. ‘Susan, even crims hesitate to kill police officers. Settle down. You have two murders to investigate and knowing this city, there’ll be more to come in very shortly. You need to stay focused and trust in David and Pete, otherwise you’ll have to ask Petersen to release you from the case.’

He was right. Reluctantly, I tried to put aside my fears to concentrate on the here and now. ‘Okay, so how did the team go at the Maxwells?’

Evan consulted the report clipped to the board. ‘Not well. No dirty dishes, everything wiped in the kitchen, but the remains of fish and chip wrapping and squeezed lemon quarters in the garbage. They should be able to get good prints off the wrapping but as you know, unless we have a match...interestingly, the lounge room is pristine, not like you’d expect from a teenage girl. The cushions were perfectly straight and coffee table is as clean as a whistle, so someone, either Ariel or the person with her, was trying to hide his – or her – presence.’ He rolled his eyes. Her?
Yeah right, in a pig’s eye.

‘They did get some smudged prints under the coffee table and a few in the bathroom under the edge of the hand basin, which didn’t match the parents. Of course they could be the sons, but Mackay notified us that the Maxwell boys’ll be back here tomorrow. We’ll get their prints then.’

‘Okay, so anything else of interest?’

‘Well, the parents said that nothing’s missing, but another thing – Ariel’s bed was made up with clean sheets, but there was a set of sheets in the washing machine. They’d been washed, but not dried. Mrs Maxwell said there shouldn’t have been anything in the machine and that Ariel
never
did the washing.’

We knew what that meant. Ariel had had company and tried to cover her tracks. Forensics would “luminal” everything in the dryer. Problem for Ariel’s companion was – she hadn’t gotten home to put the sheets in the dryer and then back into the linen cupboard.

CHAPTER 29

Surprises

Pam

Tuesday, 7AM

I’d missed practising Sunday and Monday. Panicked, I’d risen at four o’clock and put in three solid hours. I had my spare room sound-proofed so I could do my practice without driving the neighbours into a stampede. The media, frantic to get a comment on Goldie’s murder, putting my block of units under siege on Sunday night didn’t help matters. The Body Corporate Chairman was not amused. ‘Not something we encourage of our tenants, Ms Miller.’
Old goat.

I slumped back onto the bed, wishing I didn’t have to go anywhere, do anything except “veg out.” My drawn face stared at me from the bathroom mirror. Dark eyebrows, very fair skin topped by rather ordinary, wild blond crinkly hair cascading to my waist couldn’t detract from the tired lines around my eyes and the bags under them. Events since Saturday night were becoming almost too much for me.

Alex’ hostility, the knowledge that I was a suspect and had in fact been attacked was reinforced by the tight stitches in my head. I picked at the Elastoplast holding the small bandage on the wound and carefully peeled it off. A small amount of dried blood had seeped from the cut, held together by four ugly black stitches. Another week before they came out. The hard lump on my forehead had shrunk to a small squishy mound.