The Twisted Knot (14 page)

40

‘I've got the search warrant for Barry's house. Who's coming?' Terry asked as he marched into the day room. ‘We're looking for any indication of where they might have gone, or why they might have gone. Also any bloodied murder weapons or signed confessions.'

‘So a fishing trip,' Bob replied.

‘No, this is a targeted investigation into a suspicious death,' Terry said. ‘At least that's what I told the magistrate,' he added, with a smile.

Sammi looked at Bob.

‘I'm up for it,' she said. She was keen to follow up on any part of this job. Although it both intrigued and repulsed her she was intent on finding out the whole story.

‘You've got a JP lined up?' Bob asked Terry. A justice of the peace would need to accompany them through the unoccupied house to protect the rights of the absent residents. And also to protect the police if the absent residents made allegations against the officers later.

‘Shirley's going to meet us there in about ten minutes,' Terry said. ‘Coming?'

‘You're going to have to be more specific to me about what we're looking for,' Bob said, folding his arms. ‘Bear in mind you're talking to me about it, not the magistrate.'

‘Can't get anything past you, can I, Sergeant?' Terry said. ‘What I really want to know is whether it looks like they just left for a couple of weeks until the gossip dies down, or whether they've abandoned the place. If all the important stuff is gone. I've been asking around. No one's heard anything from them since Monday arvo. Belinda's phone is off. Neither of them has been in contact with the school, their workplace or friends, as best I can tell. Also, there's a rifle registered to the address in Barry's name. I want to know if it's there. If it is, I'm seizing it for safekeeping till this all gets sorted.'

Bob nodded and Terry continued. ‘I'm also looking for anything left lying around that might give us any clues. I've got the district officer to approve a locksmith to get into the gun safe, so he can get us through the front door too.'

‘Now that you've convinced me that you know what you're doing,' Bob said, ‘Sammi and I will grace your search with our presence.'

Sammi smiled. By-the-book Bob.

*

‘The thing I don't like,' Sammi said, as they pulled into the driveway of Belinda and Barry's house, ‘is that this might get the neighbours talking.'

Bob scoffed. ‘People are already talking. Pete is dead because people are talking.'

‘How do you figure that?' Sammi asked.

‘He's either killed himself rather than face the music, or someone's got to him because of the accusations. His death is a direct result of the gossip in town.'

‘I feel sorry for Barry and Belinda. Oh, and Nicola of course. The neighbour's curtains start twitching when we pull up at someone's house. This is surely going to fuel the rumours,' Sammi said.

‘It is not going to do any more damage than has already been done. And hardly anyone seems to know that Nicola is the victim,' Bob replied, parking the car behind the unmarked CIB car on the driveway.

Sammi peered at the house. ‘Looks exactly like it did when we were here the other day.'

‘What did you expect?' Bob asked. ‘Shotgun casings on the front lawn?'

‘Would have been helpful.' Sammi gave him a half-smile.

They joined the others at the front door.

Terry showed all of them, including Shirley and the locksmith, that his digital recorder was running.

It was quick work for the locksmith to get in through the front door. It was a typical push-button lock; Sammi could probably even have broken in given enough time.

‘All right, we need to find the gun safe first because Ben charges by the hour,' Terry said.

The locksmith grinned. ‘No hurry.'

‘Often in the garage,' Bob suggested, ‘or built into wardrobes.'

They fanned out around the house, looking into rooms and opening doors to get a sense of the layout. Sammi found the safe in the master bedroom's walk-in wardrobe. It was easy to spot. Usually there would have been clothes hanging in front of it, but the clothes rail was half empty.

The locksmith got to work. A gun safe would take a little longer to break into than the front door. Sammi lingered in the doorway to the walk-in robe behind Terry, scanning the half-empty clothes rails.

‘Whoever packed did it in a hurry,' she observed. ‘It looks like someone's pulled the hangers off the rail and packed them with the clothes still on them.'

Terry looked up briefly from where he was peering over the locksmith's shoulder and nodded. ‘You're probably right.'

Sammi
remained
in
the
doorway,
still
scanning
the
clothes.
‘You
know
what's
odd?'

‘What?'
Terry
asked
distractedly.

‘It
doesn't
look
like
any
men's
clothes
are
missing.'
She
pointed
at
the
top
rail
where
shirts
and
jackets
were
neatly
hanging,
and
the
bottom
rail,
with
gaps
in
amongst
the
blouses
and
hospital
uniforms.
Then
at
the
shelves,
one
neatly
arranged
with
stacks
of
T-shirts
and
shorts,
and
the
other
in
disarray.

This
caught
Terry's
attention.
‘Oh,
you're
right.'

Just
then,
the
locksmith
opened
the
safe
with
a
clunk.
He
rose
to
his
feet.

‘That's
me
done,'
he
said.
He
peered
into
the
safe.
‘You
won't
need
to
lock
that
again.'

The
safe
was
empty.
The
rifle
was
missing.

‘That's
a
bad
sign,'
Terry
said
quietly.

Missing
gun,
missing
clothes,
missing
people – this
is
turning
into
something
big,
Sammi
thought.
She
headed
for
Nicola's
bedroom.
Most
of
the
toys
seemed
to
still
be
there,
but
as
she
had
noticed
the
other
day
from
the
window,
there
were
obvious
gaps
on
shelves
where
items
should
have
been.
It
was
the
same
with
the
clothes – only
some
remained.
Either
they
had
gone
for
a
hurried
holiday
and
only
taken
a
few
items,
or
they
had
taken
the
important
things
and
left
the
rest
for
good.

Whoever had packed had taken clothes for Nicola and Belinda, but nothing for Barry. And they had taken the rifle.

Sammi went out to the kitchen and pulled on the handle of the fridge door. It was full of food, as you'd expect for a family of three leading a normal life. Milk, eggs, fruit and veggies – all the perishables were there. You wouldn't leave them like that unless you were planning to come back after a few days. Or you didn't care because you never intended on returning at all. But the fridge was still going, the electricity was still on.

Sammi tried to imagine a plausible scenario to fit these facts. But everything she came up with seemed far-fetched. She found Bob at a desk in a bedroom that seemed to double as an office. He was sifting through the drawers – old shopping dockets, children's drawings and school newsletters passing through his hands.

‘Found anything?' she asked.

‘Not really. Still looking for that smoking gun Terry's after.'

‘No guns at all here. The rifle's gone,' Sammi replied. After a pause, she asked, ‘What do you make of it?'

Bob looked up at her, a laminated Father's Day picture in his hands. He shrugged.

‘Terry's got his work cut out here.'

More questions, no answers.

41

Every night was a long night when you were waiting
, Faye thought as she stared at the ceiling. Right now, she was waiting for sleep to come because it was too late to expect the phone call she was waiting on. The long dark hours in bed gave Faye time to collect her thoughts. She thought about what she wanted to ask and what she wanted to tell. She had left a message every day. Just a short message, only saying that she wanted to talk. But she wanted to do so much more than talk. Silence had stolen her life and her family.

She had made it a rule not to smoke in bed so four times through the night she got up. It was the same routine as always. Stare into the dark stillness at the back door while smoking. Things had changed though. A small brown figure appeared at her side, nudging her leg, as she smoked. Roxy got up whenever she did, as if she was waiting with her. It was silly to think that a dog knew what was going on, but it was a comfort to her.

Faye would then lay back in bed, waiting to see if sleep would take her away before the next cigarette. Sometimes it did.

When the phone rang in the morning, after breakfast, she was ready.

‘Hello,' she said, trying to control the waver in her voice.

‘Faye, it's me. I got your message,' a voice answered. Although the woman didn't say her name, Faye immediately recognised her daughter-in-law's voice.

She breathed out as deeply as her lungs allowed, only then realising she'd been holding her breath since answering the call. ‘Oh, I'm so glad you called, dear. Are you okay?'

‘Yep.'

‘And what about our little ballerina? How is she going?'

‘Fine. She's fine.'

‘She's a lovely child, so sweet-natured. She's such a credit to you.'

‘Thanks,' Belinda replied. There was a pause. ‘I . . . um . . . I don't know what to tell you.'

‘The police came around. They told me that Peter killed himself. And I'm still waiting to hear from Barry,' Faye said.

‘Okay.'

Faye was learning more by what Belinda was not saying than from the words coming through the receiver. She pushed ahead.

‘I want to talk to you as one mother to another. I am one hundred percent on your side. I made my mistakes. Now you are suffering from them. I want to help Nicola. So that means helping you.'

‘You want to help Nicola?' Belinda echoed.

‘I know what Peter's done and it makes me sick. I want to help.'

There was a moment's stillness across the telephone connection. Not silence but stillness as if the line had gone dead. Then Belinda spoke again. ‘Look, you want to talk as one mother to another? Well, as a mother, I know you will always love your son. Regardless of what he's done. I don't want to hurt you with my anger. You don't deserve it. You don't need to be involved.'

‘But I do. I've always stayed out of everything and now I can hardly live with the consequences. My whole life feels pointless and I have nothing left to lose now. I didn't protect them when I should have, when they were young. This time, I want to do something. I
need
to do something,' Faye said.

There was a small noise of acknowledgement on the other end of the phone and Faye imagined Belinda shrugging those broad shoulders.

‘Peter was molested. By his father. My husband. Barry too,' Faye said.

‘No –'

‘I'm telling you not to try to excuse what Peter did, but to try to explain myself. Barry will be cross if he finds out I'm telling you. He won't talk about it at all. I bet he's never told you. He won't even mention his father's name. He was a brute. An alcoholic. Just a lousy excuse for a human being. But when he started molesting our sons . . . he was sodomising them . . .' There. She'd said it. Her voice had turned raspy and she coughed, turning her head against her shoulder away from the receiver. ‘I did nothing.'

There was another faint sound from the other end of the line. Faye couldn't tell whether it was sympathy or condemnation.
Either was plausible. She pressed on.

‘The boys begged me to leave. But I didn't. I couldn't. I had no money, nowhere to go, no one to help me. It was different in those days. There was no support, no way of making money. At least if we stayed there'd be a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. We were stuck with him. As much as I hated him and hated what he was doing, I had no other choice. And my sons were bound by that choice . . .' Faye trailed off with a little sniffle. She needed a smoke. She picked up a pen and held it between her index and middle fingers, a familiar weight, while she kept talking.

‘I've felt shame and regret my whole life. His hold over me only finished when he was dead. But it was too late for the boys by then. They were men. I thought they had put it behind them and moved on. But Peter made his choices and became as bad as his father. That's my deepest regret. And for that reason, I want to help Nicola.'

Faye took a deep breath. It was the first time she had told this part of her story to anyone. She felt spent, as if the weight she had been carrying for so many years had left her weak and useless, even now that it had been lifted. ‘It breaks my heart to think about Nicola.'

There was a pause, decisions clearly being made on the other end of the phone line.

‘Look, I need someone who can keep me up-to-date. I want to know what's happening, what people are saying' Belinda said.

‘Yes,' Faye answered immediately, emphatically. ‘I'll do that for you if that's what will help you.'

‘What did the police tell you about . . . the death?'

‘They said Peter committed suicide,' Faye's voice cracked on the word suicide, but she persevered.

‘Can you let me know if the police come back and visit you again? I'd be interested in anything they've got to say to you.'

‘They didn't really say much when they came. They broke the news, that's all,' Faye said. ‘Would you like me to ask them something for you?'

‘No . . .' the other woman said, drawing the single syllable out long. ‘I just want to see what happens. Look, I'm going to keep this phone turned off. But I will be checking the messages. So if you hear something, leave me a message saying you want to chat or something.'

The deep sigh was audible to Faye on the other end of the line.

‘Even if you change your mind and decide you don't want to help me, that's fine, I'll understand. All I ask is that you please don't tell the police I'm in touch with you. Please.'

‘Yes. Of course. That goes without saying. I'm on your side. I swear anything you tell me will stay between us. I know Nicola's not really my granddaughter. But I'd do anything for her,' Faye answered and she meant it.

‘Thanks. And sorry. Sorry for . . .' Belinda trailed off, as if she had changed her mind.

‘It's okay, dear. I'm sorry that you're in this situation.'

‘Thanks. I'll talk to you soon.' There was a click on the line and the engaged signal marked the end of the conversation.

Faye carefully pressed the button on the phone to hang up the call. She had much preferred laying the receiver into its cradle to finish a call, but those phones didn't seem to exist anymore. Peter had bought her this phone. He had told her how much more convenient it was to have a cordless phone and how reliable it would be. He had made some joke about dragging her out of the last century. It was handy to be able to walk around while she was on a call, but she had also liked to play with the curled cord connecting the old receiver and phone. But nothing stayed the same. The only constant was change. Although she couldn't avoid the sensation that history was repeating itself.