The Mothers' Group (30 page)

As the siren faded, everyone began talking at once.

Someone said, ‘That bastard drowned her. Did he interfere with her too?' An elderly man shook his fist at the police. ‘Why'd you start taking names before having a decent look around, you bloody idiots?' he bellowed. A woman Pippa didn't recognise was doubled over on the ground, keening.
Why, why, why.
Pippa stood motionless in the chaos, searching the picnic area for Heidi and Robert. When finally she found them, over near the barbecue, she rushed at Heidi and hugged her to her chest. ‘Thank God you're alright,' she whispered. ‘
Thank God
.'

Four more police cars arrived, bearing uniformed police and detectives in plain clothes. A State Emergency Services van appeared, bringing kind-faced people in fluorescent orange vests. They made cups of tea from portable urns, and comforted the grief-stricken. A forensic team cordoned off the picnic area with lengths of blue and white tape. Richard and his parents, haggard and weeping, were bundled into a police car to follow Cara to the hospital. They'd arrived late, expecting a birthday party in full swing. Instead, Richard had been given the dreadful news. He'd fallen to his knees and howled, even as others tried to comfort him. Pippa had never heard a grown man make such a wild, terrible sound.

Hours of police interviews followed. The afternoon's shadows lengthened as guests made their statements. As the sky darkened, those already interviewed began to disperse, trudging to their cars with slumped shoulders and swollen eyes. Ginie and Daniel and their entourage went first, then Made and Gordon with Wayan, Suzie, Freya and Monika, the ranger, the face-painter and the clown.

The police finally took Pippa's statement just before sunset. The detective identified himself as Detective Constable Warren Harrison and, wearily, opened his large black folio. She strained to hear him above the mechanical drone of a news helicopter, circling low over the dam. He took down Pippa's name, address and date of birth.

‘Tell me what you saw happen today, Mrs Thompson.'

Pippa wept as she told him of her discovery at the dam's edge. ‘I don't know how she walked that far,' she said.

‘So what made you go down to the dam to look for Astrid in the first place, Mrs Thompson?'

‘The ranger,' she said. ‘He suggested it. I saw him working up near the bushwalking tracks when we arrived. Made brought him over to help. I guess we were focused on who might have . . . taken Astrid. It all happened so quickly.' She blinked away tears. ‘I mean, we were
right
here. There were so many people around . . .'

The police officer studied her for a moment. ‘Accidents happen in seconds.' He cleared his throat and referred to his folio again. ‘And who
was
with Astrid, Mrs Thompson, to your knowledge, immediately prior to her disappearance?'

Pippa swallowed. ‘As far as I know, it was Miranda . . . Miranda Bianco. One of the women from my mothers' group.' Her eyes darted involuntarily to the figure of Miranda, still hunched over on the picnic blanket. She hadn't moved for hours. Willem had taken Digby and Rory home.

‘How do you know Miranda was with her?'

‘Because I heard Cara ask Miranda to keep an eye on Astrid while she went and talked to a friend of hers. And then I saw Miranda with her son Rory and Astrid on the picnic rug over there.' She nodded at the rug on which Miranda now sat.

‘And then what happened?'

‘I don't really know.' Pippa's eyes flooded with new tears. ‘A clown was doing tricks near the barbecue and I got distracted. A lot of us did, I guess.'

The detective's black pen scratched across the page.

‘And did you see anything unusual at all today, Mrs Thompson?'

Pippa hesitated. ‘I don't know whether this is relevant or not . . .' she began. ‘I saw Miranda vomiting so I went over to help her. I thought maybe she was pregnant.' She paused. ‘I offered her some water from her own bottle.' She held up the Evian bottle. ‘But when I took a sip myself I found out it's not water in there. It's alcohol.'

The detective studied her. ‘Do you think she might not have been in a fit state to look after a child?'

Pippa shrugged. ‘I don't know . . . We'd all had a couple of champagnes. It was a birthday party, a Mother's Day celebration.' Her voice broke.

The detective produced a zip-lock evidence bag from his pocket, opened it, and placed the bottle inside.

‘Was there anything else about Mrs Bianco's behaviour that suggested to you she might not be in a sound physical or mental state?'

Pippa shook her head. ‘Just the vomiting,' she said. ‘Honestly, she didn't seem drunk.'

‘Thank you very much, Mrs Thompson. That will be all for now. We may need to come back to you with further enquiries as our investigation progresses.'

She nodded.

The detective motioned to a colleague.

Pippa began gathering up her things, suddenly conscious of the television cameras in the car park. She spotted Robert on a wooden bench on the southern side of the dam. He appeared to be spoon-feeding Heidi in her stroller. She glanced at her watch. It was well beyond Heidi's usual dinner time. Then she brought her hands to her mouth, physically struck by the thought of Cara and Richard at the hospital, cradling Astrid in their arms.

Two detectives approached Miranda. One of them touched her on the shoulder. She hardly raised her head.

‘Mrs Bianco,' Pippa heard him say. ‘We need to talk to you about what happened today, and we'd like to do that down at police headquarters. Can you come with us to the station for an interview?'

Miranda looked stunned. ‘Am I under arrest?'

‘No,' he replied. ‘And you're under no obligation to come down to the station, either. But given today's events, we'd like to do the interview formally.'

Miranda looked from one to the other. ‘Can . . . can I call my husband first?'

‘Of course.'

She found her mobile phone and began dialling the number. Then she stopped suddenly, and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

‘I'll come with you now,' she said.

The detectives helped her up.

As she watched Miranda in the semi-darkness, Pippa had an overwhelming urge to reach out to her.

‘Miranda,' she called. ‘If you need anything, let me know.'

But Miranda just stared at her blankly, as if she wasn't there.

Robert's hand clasped hers as they sat on the lounge, awaiting the late news. It was the second item of the night, following a story on destructive floods that had killed more than three hundred people in Brazil. A smiling picture of Astrid hovered beneath the caption
Mother's Day
Tragedy
. A fresh-faced reporter with a blonde bob and distracting lipstick stood in the car park in front of Manly Dam. The picnic area was illuminated by large halogen lamps, under which a forensic team continued to work.

‘Forensic investigators are working into the night following the tragic death of one-year-old Astrid Jenkins at a popular recreational area for families on Sydney's northern beaches,' she announced. ‘Police are unable to confirm whether a criminal investigation will proceed, but it is understood that Astrid was in the care of family and friends when she was found face down in shallow water. Ambulance officers were unable to revive the child, who was pronounced dead on arrival at North Shore Hospital. Witnesses at the scene claim an unidentified man may have lured the child away from her first birthday party. Police are unable to confirm these allegations.'

The camera cut to a balding, middle-aged policeman identified as Detective Chief Inspector Russell Bale, Superintendent of Manly Local Area Command. ‘A tragedy has occurred today and we won't be speculating about what happened,' he said. ‘The case will be referred to the coroner and investigations are continuing.'

The blonde journalist stared into the camera lens. ‘Bystanders observed that the dam in which the child was found was unfenced.' She paused. ‘Jocelyn Farrell, Channel Nine News.'

Pippa turned off the television and they sat in silence for several minutes.

‘Do you want to talk about it?' Robert asked.

She shook her head.

‘We should go to bed,' he said. ‘It's been a long day.'

She imagined Cara and Richard in the silent rooms of their comfortable home. What were they doing now? she wondered. What
could
you do, when your child was dead?

‘Well, I'm turning in,' said Robert. He cupped a hand under her chin. ‘Don't stay up too long thinking. It's terrible, but you need to get some rest.' He gestured in the direction of Heidi's room.

He's right, she thought. There's another life entirely reliant on me.

So much life, so much death. A world so arbitrary and heartbreaking.

She couldn't possibly sleep tonight.

‘Hey.'

A patch of wetness had pooled at the corner of her mouth and her right arm was numb.

‘Hey.'

She opened her eyes. Robert, in his work gear and boots, crouched next to her in the early morning light.

‘It's six o'clock,' he said. ‘You slept out here all night.'

She'd lain awake on the lounge for most of it, reliving the day before. Had she been remiss in some way? Could she have done something to prevent Astrid's death? She'd heard Cara's conversation with Miranda: why hadn't she watched Astrid too? It wasn't until she heard birds welcoming the dawn that finally, weary of her thoughts, Pippa surrendered to sleep.

‘I've got to go to work now.' He took her hand. ‘Will you be okay?'

She nodded.

‘Are you sure?'

She nodded again.

‘Can you . . . I don't know, call your psychiatrist or something? Tell her about what happened yesterday. I mean, you were there when they pulled Astrid out.'

One of the SES workers had made a similar suggestion.

‘I'll be alright.'

Robert hovered in front of her.

‘Things were just, you know, starting to get a little bit better with your mood and everything. I wouldn't want this to . . .'

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘What, ruin our lives?' She shook her head. ‘I don't think we should be worrying too much about how Astrid's death might affect us, Robert. Think of Cara and Richard. Their lives are never,
ever
going to be the same.' Tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes.

‘I just . . .'

She cut him off. ‘Has it even
registered
with you that a child is dead? My
friend's
child?'

Robert looked hurt. ‘Of course it has,' he said quietly. ‘I was there too.' He scuffed his boots. ‘We all deal with these things differently, you know.'

She exhaled, her anger dissipating. She looked at Robert's tired eyes and reached out to touch his face.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘You're right.'

‘I've got to go,' he said, kissing her hand. ‘But when I get home, I want you to tell me you've made an appointment with the psychiatrist. It's important, Pip. Promise me?'

‘I promise.'

*

He'd come a long way, this high school sweetheart of hers, to develop such emotional intelligence. He'd always been a physical person, a champion athlete in high school who'd pushed his body to its limits. He'd attended a Catholic boys' school in Manly and she'd been at the sister school. They'd met in Year 12 at a regional cross-–country competition. They'd been attracted to each other's physicality and, in the early years, their relationship had been defined by their feats of endurance together. Trekking the Kokoda Trail, kayaking the Murrumbidgee River, cycling across the Nullarbor Plain. He'd proposed at the peak of Mount Kosciuszko on the eve of their fifth anniversary, when they were twenty-three years old. At the time, he'd just completed his building apprenticeship, while she was in her final year of a degree in organisational psychology.

‘All airy-fairy,' Robert had joked about her studies. ‘Give me something I can touch and feel any day.'

Their families had been thrilled by their marriage. He was the youngest of seven children from a working-class family in Narrabeen. His father was a fitter and turner, his mother a shop assistant. When the family's dwindling finances threatened to disrupt his education, he'd been fortunate enough to receive a bursary to fund the final two years of his schooling.

By contrast, as the only child of middle-class parents in Fairlight, Pippa had never wanted for much at all. She'd been a miraculous surprise late in life for her parents. Her father was close to retirement at the time she was born, and her mother was an ‘ancient forty-five', as she termed it. Now in their seventies and nineties, her parents lived in a two-bedroom flat in Fairlight, with a Persian cat, a budgerigar and a patio of African violets. Although they telephoned Pippa every week, a range of infirmities prevented them from visiting. They were more like grandparents to Pippa now, she sometimes reflected.

Pippa and Robert had started trying for a baby just as soon as they were married, after a three-year engagement. Robert was far more observant of Catholic teachings than she was; her draconian schooling had all but bludgeoned the life out of her faith. Robert, on the other hand, went to Mass every Friday and Sunday and was opposed to abortion, euthanasia and contraception. She didn't object. At twenty-six, she was ready for a baby. She didn't want to leave it too long and end up like her own parents: too old to truly enjoy her children.

But things didn't go according to plan. Much to Robert's surprise and increasing consternation, their bodies combined bore no physical fruit. After three years, they consulted a specialist. A raft of tests revealed that Pippa suffered from uterine fibroids, the same condition as her mother. ‘Only these days,' the specialist assured her, ‘we can do something about it.'