Tell the Truth (7 page)

She couldn't recollect any stories of trouble with anyone, no hints that Stacey was hiding anything or seeing anyone behind James's back.

‘James is a sweetheart,' she said. ‘Keeps in touch, lets her know where he is. He calls the station sometimes when she's on duty, pretends he's Control and tries to give us ridiculous jobs.'

Ella resisted the urge to glance at Murray.

Vicky Page, a surgical nurse, forty-one, was deep-voiced and serious with dark circles under her eyes and long black hair in a plait.

‘James is the one to look at,' she said as soon as she'd sat down.

‘Why do you say that?' Ella asked.

‘Because the first time I met him I shook his hand and knew he would cause her trouble. I'm a little bit psychic and I'm hardly ever wrong on these things.'

‘Right,' Ella said. ‘Has Stacey ever confided in you about problems she was having?'

‘No, but I know she's unhappy in her marriage. I've been divorced three times, so between that and being psychic I can tell what's going on.'

‘What's going on?'

‘She's not happy. He doesn't treat her well. It looks fine on the outside but it's not.'

‘Have you ever talked to Stacey about it?' Murray asked.

‘I've tried a couple of times, but she's not ready yet,' Vicky said. ‘She will be, one day. Meantime I make sure I'm there for her.'

‘How do you do that?' Murray asked.

‘Call her up, see if she needs a chat. Meet up for coffee. Plan a movie night. The little things can really help.'

‘Have you ever seen signs that James was violent?' Ella said.

‘I don't think he is. I've never read that in her stress levels.'

‘Were you aware of times she was stressed because she wasn't getting along with anyone else?' Murray asked.

‘Not so much,' Vicky said. ‘Her personality type means she gets on with people.'

‘Not so much,' Ella repeated. ‘You mean sometimes?'

‘No. More like not at all.'

Ella wanted to bang her own head on the table.

Murray must have felt the same, because he said, ‘Is there anything else, anything at all you can tell us about her that might help us work out what's happened?'

‘Give me a moment.' Vicky sank her chin into her neck and breathed deeply. ‘No. Nothing's coming to me.'

Ella slapped her card on the table and stood up. ‘Call us if you do happen to remember something.'

‘There is one thing,' Vicky said.

Ella and Murray turned back from the doorway.

‘It's important for you to look after yourself now.'

‘Thank you,' Murray said. ‘We will.'

‘Not you,' Vicky said, and pointed at Ella. ‘You.'

‘What do you mean?' Ella asked.

‘Just what I said.'

Ella gave up and went out.
Nutters – they were everywhere.

Aimee, Rowan, Imogen and Claire were waiting in the lounge room.

‘No more investigating,' Ella said to Rowan. ‘You think of anything, you call us.'

He nodded, but seemed unperturbed.

‘Thanks for your help,' Murray said to the group, then he and Ella walked outside.

It was starting to rain as they got into the car.

‘Why'd she say that to you?' Murray said. ‘I'm the one getting married in four days. I'm the one with the pre-wedding nerves, the one who needs to stay healthy.'

‘Forget the crazy,' Ella said. ‘Aimee said James calls Stacey when they're out and waits at the door when she gets home, and Claire said he calls the station. That's bordering on possessive, if you ask me.'

‘I wait up for Natasha if she goes out, and I call her sometimes too,' Murray said. ‘You're saying I'm possessive?'

‘You're still in the honeymoon phase. They've been married for years. They'd be over that.'

‘Only five.'

Ella ignored him and started the car. ‘James was eyeing off Rowan and had asked Paris about him and Stacey; Rowan found her car and is snooping; what comes next?'

‘Let's see who's home at Rowan's house,' Murray said.

*

After the police had left, Paris tried to talk to her mother, but Marie said she felt dizzy again and had to lie down, alone, in her room with the door shut.

Paris showered in a daze, then pulled on her pyjamas and climbed into her own bed. She lay there now, still awake, the quilt pulled up over her head though she could hear her mother up again and moving about.

She felt strange about telling the detective of James's phone call. It hadn't seemed right that he asked her about Stacey and Rowan, but there was no reason not to answer. And then he'd laughed and made her feel pathetic, as if she wasn't old enough to get the joke and never would be. So it felt right to tell her, but the gleam in her eyes made Paris think she'd just confirmed something the detective had suspected, and if she suspected that James or Rowan or both were somehow involved in whatever had happened to Stacey . . . It was incomprehensible. These were men she knew and trusted, even if she didn't exactly delight in their company. And tomorrow she was due back on shift with Rowan, with this in her mind on top of what'd happened last week.

They'd been finishing a nightshift on Thursday morning, and between her tiredness and the general difficulties she'd been having she forgot to replace an empty oxygen cylinder. Rowan was furious, and went on and on about the importance of oxygen and of replacing what you used before getting into ‘how many times do I have to tell you?'. She'd stood with tears in her eyes and tried to apologise, but he'd shook his head and told her to go home and think hard about whether she was right for the job. She'd gone into the locker room and that's where Stacey found her, sobbing, when she'd come in for her shift ten minutes later. Stacey had comforted her, blamed the whole thing on nightshift and fatigue, and sent her home with money for a fancy coffee on the way and a promise to call later and check in. Rowan's car had still been on the station when Paris had left but she hadn't seen him, thank goodness, and when Stacey rang that afternoon she'd said she'd talked to him about it, he'd felt bad about getting angry, and everything was fine.

Problem was, everything wasn't fine.

She'd realised as a child that there was something wrong with her mind. It had started when she was still at school: after every exam she'd gone over and over it in her head, trying to think where she'd gone wrong, what she should've done better. She knew that everyone did that a little bit, but usually by the same afternoon or at most the next day they seemed to be over it. She would still be obsessing weeks later, and it was exhausting. It got worse after her dad died, then again in Years Eleven and Twelve, then had gone off the scale during her paramedic training. She'd done well – she always did well, coming at or close to the top of the class in most things – but it was like she couldn't trust herself, and always felt certain she'd done it all wrong. Since being on the road, the fear had developed a new dimension: she didn't trust her training and her knowledge, she was frightened of missing something important in the patient, and most of all she was terrified that this something would slyly worsen, she would fail to notice, and the patient would die right there in front of her.

Then Rowan said she might not be right for the job, and she realised that if he could see it, she had to admit it to herself. But being a paramedic had been her goal since Stacey had come to her house in her new uniform, first week on the job, full of stories about the people she met and the lives she saved. Paris had sat close by her, taking it all in, and thinking – she couldn't deny it – that someone in just such a uniform had been at her father's crash. That maybe one day she could go to something like that and this time save the person, and the life of some kid would always be the better for it.

The one thing that kept her going over the past six weeks was Stacey. She'd been a rock, talking her through the problems, reminding her how much she did know, saying that it was hard for a patient to secretly die when you were actually looking at them. She made Paris feel like perhaps she could do it; and perhaps she could make Stacey proud of her too. But now she was missing, and there was blood in her car.

Paris knew now what pools of blood looked like, smelled like. The thought of someone hurting Stacey, of some wound in her flesh like the wounds she'd seen – deep lacerations spilling yellowish fat, exposed red meat like steak, the white flash of bone . . . Who would do that to her, and why? She felt sick in every way. Her heart was cold in her chest, her stomach all clenched up. Her skin and her joints hurt like she had a fever. And the fear of going to work tomorrow and not having Stacey there on belay froze her solid.

She peered with one eye at her phone, resting on the pillow beside her. She'd voicemailed her boyfriend, Liam, but in his job as a technician building medical equipment they had to leave their phones in their lockers. He wouldn't get the message for another couple of hours.

She called him again, needing to hear his voice even just in his message, and left a long rambly one of her own.

Her mother opened the door without knocking. ‘Who're you talking to?'

‘Liam.' Paris hung up and tucked the phone under her pillow.

‘Why are you in bed? You're not on nights tonight.'

‘I feel awful.'

‘You look okay.' Still in the doorway, Marie looked critically around the room. ‘Looks like time for a tidy-up.'

‘I need all those books,' Paris said. ‘Have you heard anything from the police?'

‘Not yet.'

‘I can't stand to think of her out there somewhere.'

‘Then don't. Think about something else.' Marie nudged one of the books with her foot. ‘Think about whether you need this badly enough to keep it on the floor.'

Paris felt tears coming. ‘Do you think James did something to her?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘In the news it's always the husband, they always find out later he was behind it.'

‘I've known James most of my life, and he wouldn't have done anything,' Marie said. ‘Crying's not going to help her either.'

Paris wiped her face on the sheet. ‘You knew him when you were kids, then when he met her. That's not most of your life.'

‘I know him,' her mother said. ‘He wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘I feel sick.' Paris buried herself under the quilt.

‘You're fine. Come out from under there.'

Paris didn't answer.

‘You need to get up and do something,' Marie said, ‘like I do. I'm going to see James soon and make sure he's okay. I'll probably stay and cook dinner. You've got to keep moving. Find something to do. Activity's good for the soul.'

Paris looked out. ‘You want me to go with you?' She didn't know which answer she wanted.

Marie shook her head. ‘James needs to keep his spirits up. You'd walk in the door and collapse in a sobbing heap. You'd bring us all down.'

‘You collapsed in front of the cops,' Paris said.

‘That was shock and a whole different thing. You of all people should know that.'

Paris went back under the quilt.

‘Well, if that's your response,' Marie said. ‘I'm going now, so you'll have to sort your own dinner. I don't know when I'll be back.'

‘I need a hug,' Paris said.

There was no answer.

She said it again, louder, then looked over the quilt. The door was open, the doorway empty. Her mother had walked away.

SEVEN

I
mogen accepted another cup of coffee, so Rowan had one too, and Charlotte jumped around the room while everyone talked about the police and the investigation and what could have happened, and wasn't it terrible. And it was terrible, that was the thing: it was terrible, but it made Rowan feel even worse to sit around and chatter rather than get out and do something about it. The police had been clear that they didn't want his help, and maybe it did make him look odd to be involved, but this was what you did for your friends. He let the conversation wash around him and looked out the window. It was raining. Stacey hated working in the rain. He wondered if she was out in it now.

Finally they were done. Vicky left, then Claire, then he and Imogen went out and got into his car. He backed out of Aimee's driveway, waved at her in her doorway, and headed back towards the cafe and Imogen's car. The rain drummed on the car roof, and the tyres of cars going the other way hissed on the road. The car smelled of damp carpet and apple and one of the wipers squeaked. Rowan's head hurt.

Imogen was silent. Her hands were between her knees, her gaze out the windscreen.

He cleared his throat. ‘I'm sorry about all that. I didn't mean for us to stay so long. I didn't think you'd get interviewed by the police too.'

‘I don't mind.'

He glanced at her but couldn't tell if she meant it. He fixed his grip at ten to two and stared at the car in front, the tail-lights smearing red in the rain on the glass.

‘I haven't been out with anyone for a long time,' Imogen said. ‘I didn't know what it would be like. I was worried it would be boring. So at least it wasn't that.'

‘True,' he said. ‘Still, I am sorry.'

‘Forget it.' She smiled at him, then placed her hand on his thigh, squeezed. ‘You know something? There's nobody home at my place.'

He didn't know where to look. ‘School will be out.'

‘They both work,' she said. ‘They won't be home until six. Maybe even later.'

‘Oh,' he said.

She slid her hand higher. He could feel her nails through the denim of his jeans, digging in ever so slightly.

He coughed. ‘I don't know. Stacey, I mean.'

‘You're afraid you're too distracted? You don't need to do any of the work. I promise.'

‘Doesn't seem right,' he croaked.

She raised her hand an inch off his leg. ‘Seriously?'

He shrugged, eyes still front.

She shifted, her back against her door, both her hands in her own lap. ‘Well. Okay. That's okay.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No need to be sorry,' she said. ‘Life rolls along.'

They travelled the rest of the way to the cafe in what felt to him like an embarrassed silence. The rain was still falling when he pulled up next to her car. ‘Thanks again,' he said.

‘Anytime.' She leaned over with a smile and tweaked his earlobe, then got out.

Rowan scraped his teeth over his lower lip, listening but not looking as she started her car and drove off. At the last second he glanced over to see her wave at him, her hand out the window in the rain.

‘Bye,' he said.

The rain grew heavier, pounding the car, and Rowan thought of Stacey.

*

Murray called Dennis and exchanged updates while Ella drove to Rowan Wylie's house in Homebush.

‘No sign of her,' Murray relayed to Ella when he'd hung up. ‘No Jane Does fitting her description at any hospital. There's some progress with tracking the cyclist, but they're nowhere close to an ID yet. There's no activity from Stacey's phone. James has called it a few times but not had an answer. And James, Rowan, Marie and Bill Willetts don't have records.'

‘That only means they've never been caught,' she said.

The Wylie house stood on a quiet street and looked tired and in need of a spruce-up. The garden beds along the front contained as many weeds as they did agapanthus, which were themselves brown in spots and limp. The paint on the front doorframe was cracked, and a line of ants marched up the wall and into a crack between the house and the roof overhang. The windows in the upper storey looked like mournful eyes.

The woman who answered Murray's knock was in her late teens. She was round-faced and red-cheeked, wearing a sundress that was tight under the arms, and she bounced a little girl with bare feet on her hip. Emelia, Ella remembered.

‘Rowan's not home right now. I'm his son's girlfriend.'

‘Can we talk to you for a few minutes?' Ella said.

‘Sure. Come in. We'll have to go in the backyard though. Emelia was just about to get in the sandpit and she'll go nuts if I tell her no now.'

Out the back they sat at a worn timber picnic table. The child jumped with both feet into a plastic clam-shell of yellow sand, her eyes on the grown-ups, making sure they were watching. It hadn't rained here yet, but grey clouds were turning darker overhead and thunder rumbled in the distance.

‘Your name's Megan, correct?' Ella said.

‘Yep. Last name's Wilkinson,' Megan said. ‘I guess you're here about Stacey?'

Ella nodded. ‘Do you know her?'

‘We've met a few times. She's a nice lady. She sent this really cute little pink teddy bear when Emelia was born.'

‘How about her husband, James?' Murray asked.

‘He's a great guy. You know Simon works for him? A while back I was sick and couldn't look after Emelia, and Rowan was on shift so couldn't help, and James gave Simon time off to look after us both. And he's getting us an apartment too. This friend of his has one to rent, and James has told him to give it to us.' She beamed.

‘That's great,' Murray said.

Emelia threw handfuls of sand onto the grass.

‘Don't do that, sweetie,' Megan said. ‘It really is. He doesn't have to help us out, but he is, you know? It's nice. It makes you realise there are nice people in the world.'

‘When did you last see or talk to Stacey?' Ella asked.

‘I couldn't even remember,' Megan said. ‘At least a month ago? Something like that.'

‘And James?'

‘Wednesday last week. Em and I went to have lunch with Simon, and saw James in the shop. We all said hi and just chatted a bit, you know, then we went for lunch.'

‘At McDonald's!' Emelia shouted.

‘That's right,' Megan said. ‘What a great memory you have.'

The kid kicked sand into the air with glee. The wind blew it back onto her legs.

Ella said, ‘Were you home on Sunday?'

Megan nodded. ‘Yep. Simon was in Melbourne with James at that conference, so it was me, Emelia and Rowan. In the morning we all went for a walk, but the rest of the time we were right here.'

‘Rowan didn't go out at all?' Murray said. ‘Not for petrol or the paper or anything?'

Megan shook her head. ‘He fell asleep in front of the football on TV. I was studying – I'm doing this part-time course in graphic design – and I sat out here with my stuff and Emelia did her usual Emelia things. She likes dinosaurs. She builds them houses in the sand.' She glanced around. ‘Honey, what did I just say about throwing that out?'

Ella thought over what Rowan had told her. ‘How long have you lived here?'

‘Almost three years. My parents threw me out when I got pregnant, when Simon was in Year Twelve and I was in Year Ten. Rowan and Jennifer weren't thrilled but when Simon told them how pissed my parents were, they said I could move in here. Jennifer was sick, you know, she had cancer, and it was really tough sometimes. We didn't always get along, but I saw them cry, I mean really sob, when Em was born. They both hugged me and told me how happy they were that I was there.' She sniffed and screwed up her nose and looked away. ‘Jennifer died when Em was six weeks old. Sometimes I felt like I loved her more than I did my real mum. We sent her and my dad a card, like a baby birth announcement thing with a pretty photo and all that. Simon said he thought they'd send it back unopened. They didn't, but they never replied, or rang us or anything.' She pulled at the fabric in her armpit. ‘So, yeah. I've been here a while.'

‘Has Rowan been seeing anyone since Jennifer died?' Ella asked.

‘Like a girlfriend? Only today. I set him up with a lady I
know from my design course, she was an accountant or some
thing
but now she's really into design. They're out this afternoon.
He wasn't going to go when he found out about Stacey, he said it felt wrong. But I said wouldn't Stacey want him
to go?'

‘Is that how you found out about her? When Rowan told you?' Ella said.

‘No, Simon rang before Rowan got home with Em. Rowan seemed upset, like not crying or anything, but just kind of stunned. Shocked. I made him a cup of tea.'

‘What did he say about her?' Ella asked.

‘Well, nothing really. I tried to prompt him, so he'd know I was there to listen if he like needed to talk, but he changed the subject.'

‘To what?'

‘To ask how college was, to say how happy he was that me and Simon and Em live here. That he's proud of us.' She blushed a little and turned away to look at Emelia.

Murray said, ‘So apart from this date today, he's never gone out with anyone else?'

‘Nope. Simon and I joke with him about it, but I guess he just hasn't been ready. Like we've kinda nagged him for a while, and I told him about my friend Imogen ages ago, but he only just said yes recently.'

Ella said, ‘Is Simon an only child?'

‘No, he's got an older brother called Angus. Nobody knows where he is though. He sends these postcards like once or twice a year. Always from somewhere different out in the country.'

‘Does Rowan keep them?' Ella said.

‘Yep. They're on the fridge.'

They followed her inside the house to the kitchen. She took a postcard from the front of the fridge and handed it to them, then lifted a thin rubber-banded collection from the top. The most recent was from Broken Hill, showing old buildings in the town, and scrawled across the back in tall leaning capitals were the words,
A quick hello from me. Angus.
Ella saw it was postmarked the third of March. A month ago.

Murray looked through the others. ‘Hay, Albury, Deniliquin, Cobar, Bourke and Nyngan.' He turned them over and Ella saw similar brief messages all in the same handwriting.

‘A couple of times Rowan called the cops out there, asking if anyone knew him and that sort of thing,' Megan said. ‘But nobody ever knew anything. He keeps these here, and I guess he figures that one day Angus'll come back, or at least ring up or something.'

‘He's sending them roughly every six months,' Murray said.

‘Yep, but never for anyone's birthday or Christmas or anything,' Megan said. ‘They're just kind of random.'

In the garden, Emelia tripped over the edge of the clam-shell, fell onto the grass and burst into tears. Megan hurried out to her, leaving Ella and Murray in the kitchen.

‘So,' Murray said, ‘Rowan has an alibi.'

‘From a family member who owes him,' Ella said.

Murray put the postcards back on top of the fridge. ‘I thought you were going for James.'

‘I have an open and inclusive policy,' she said. ‘I suspect everybody.'

*

It was drizzling in Parramatta and the late afternoon sky was low and grey when Ella and Murray stepped out of the lift onto the Homicide office floor. Ella's mobile rang and she couldn't help but smile when she saw Callum's name on the screen.

‘Let me guess who that is,' Murray said. ‘Ella and Callum, sitting in a tree –'

She went to punch him in the arm but he ducked away laughing. She scowled at him as she answered the phone, ‘Hey you.'

‘Hey you yourself,' Callum said. ‘Can you talk?'

‘For a minute.' She waved the grinning Murray on. ‘Thanks for the info this morning.'

‘Any time. What happened?'

‘A woman's missing. We found the blood in her car.'

‘It's been hours,' he said. ‘She'll be lucky to still be alive.'

‘And we've got no strong leads yet.' She rubbed her eyes with one hand. ‘How's your day? Did you finish golf before it rained?'

‘Never made it. Mum called up in a state. She's decided to sell the house. I've been here all day helping her sort through stuff.'

‘Just like that?' Ella said.

‘She says it's been coming for a while, because of the mortgage and the legal bills. I'm not sure whether she'll really go through with it, but she had me buy a stack of boxes for when she starts packing.'

Ella felt a jab of guilt. No, not guilt – it wasn't her fault that twenty-four years ago Callum's father, Alistair McLennan, had murdered Callum's cousin, his own nephew. Despite Alistair's full confession, Callum's mother, Genevieve, had trouble believing her husband was guilty, preferring to blame Ella and her solving of the cold case for the life sentence Alistair had received and the situation she now found herself in – losing friends, broke, and unable to get work as a medical receptionist because people recognised her surname, or so she said.

Six months ago Alistair had been stabbed by another inmate, and it had seemed like the death knell for Callum and Ella's relationship, but he'd recovered and so had they. Things had been good lately, steady and comfortable and happy, just how a relationship should be. It was sadness Ella felt now, for Callum who was stuck in the middle.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

‘Ah, well, the place is too big for her anyway.'

Ella had a sudden thought. ‘She's not angling to move in with you, is she?'

‘Don't even joke,' he said. ‘That is not going to happen.'

She smiled.