Текст книги "Take Out"

Автор книги: Felicity Young

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WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER SIX

Like any member of the public, Stevie followed the Pavel case through newspaper articles and the TV news, bolstered by the occasional reports from Skye on the baby’s condition. After an official complaint from Fowler, Inspector Veitch—her boss at Sex Crimes—told her in no uncertain terms to lay off, and, as Monty had predicted, disciplinary action was taken no further. As Stevie’s own cases and the courtroom finale were dominating her every working hour, she backed down with little reluctance.

A couple of days had passed since their disturbing discovery and Skye’s calls became less frequent. But then Stevie received a call from Skye just as court was adjourning for lunch. The impeccable timing was soon explained by Skye’s appearance in the anteroom, phone still clamped to her ear, resplendent in full body armour: nose stud, eyebrow ring and multiple ear piercings.

Well prepared for battle, she would not take Stevie’s no for an answer. ‘Skye, I can’t, I’ve been warned off.’

‘C’mon, girlfriend, I’ll buy you lunch,’ Skye said, linking her arm through Stevie’s.

Stevie cringed at the loudness of her friend’s voice amongst the muffled whisperings of those leaving the court. ‘Skye, what the hell are you doing here?’ she shot back in a stage whisper.

‘Like I just said, I want to buy you lunch.’

‘I don’t have time for lunch. I have to go back to Central and grab some notes in time for the next session.’

‘You so do have time for lunch. I asked one of the bailiffs while I was waiting and he said you have an hour and a half. Are cops sub-human, don’t they need to eat? I have my Vespa—I can scoot you over to Central for your notes after we’ve had a snack and a talk.’

When Stevie continued to make noises of protest, Skye lowered her voice. ‘I’ve just come back from the hospital, went to see the kid. There’s still no sign of his parents and the police haven’t been able to trace any relatives. The ward social worker says at this rate he’ll have to be fostered out when he’s discharged. There’s some other stuff too, stuff we need to talk about in private.’ The way her eyes slid toward a group of bewigged lawyers waiting for the lifts, suggested something furtive.

Soon Stevie would be commencing three weeks of leave and she had more than enough to do than get involved in a case she’d been warned to step away from. This was to be an important family time for them. Monty needed her; Izzy needed her even more. She would be the perfect mother: school runs, excursions, sitting through assemblies, helping with reading classes...

When she didn’t get the desired response, Skye raised her voice to an unnaturally loud pitch. ‘Okay, Stevie, it’s like this, the police are handling this case like DICKheads...’ The lawyers at the lift ceased their murmurings, all heads turned. ‘Did you get that? D—I—’

A bailiff caught Stevie’s eye and frowned.

‘Okay, you win.’ Seemed there was no choice. If she didn’t want to be evicted from the building, she’d have to hear Skye out. Stevie took Skye’s arm and guided her firmly toward the stairwell. A tall, fair-haired man stepped out in front of them as they were about to make their way down, deliberately bumping her on the shoulder. ‘Watch where you’re going, Stevie Hooper,’ he said, disappearing into the crowd outside the courtroom before she could get a good look at him.

Did she hear him correctly?

‘Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?’ Stevie started after him, only to find herself held back by Skye.

‘Stevie, we don’t have much time.’

Stevie pulled against her friend’s hand, but not enough to dislodge her grip.

‘Who was that guy?’ Skye said. ‘Hey, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.’

Stevie absently touched her cheek, stared back into the whirlpool of people and shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m not sure; I think the case is getting to me. I must be imagining things.’

Stevie hitched her skirt and climbed onto the pillion behind Skye. Dodging traffic and parked cars, they caught more than a few gaping stares and whistles as they sped down the terrace, to which Skye laughed and raised her middle finger. They arrived at the wine bar more than a little out of breath, Stevie laughing despite the annoyance at allowing herself to be so easily manipulated. The incident with the man on the stairs was forgotten. They ordered cheeseburgers and settled into a corner table, Stevie nursing an orange juice, Skye a vodka and Red Bull—it was her day off, after all.

‘How’s Monty? Do you think he’ll go through with the op this time?’ Skye asked.

From anyone else, the question might have been contrived, something off-topic to ease into the intended subject matter. But Skye had shown genuine concern for Monty’s health problems when they’d first come to a head last year, even offering to come over and talk to him about the operation if it would help.

‘Maybe he’ll go through with it if Wayne—he’s a guy Mont works with in Serious Crime—keeps his mouth shut this time,’ Stevie said. ‘He insisted on showing Monty his own scar, said the operation was like boning a duck with a pair of poultry scissors.’ She scissored her fingers. ‘I mean, it used to be dick length, now it’s bypass scars. What is it with guys growing older?’

Skye laughed. ‘Jeez, no wonder he’s been put off. But it’s really not that bad these days. Cook me dinner and I’ll come over and explain it a bit more gently. Better not make it poultry, though, just to be safe.’

‘Or rare beef.’

Skye took a swallow of her drink, smacked her lips. ‘That’s hitting the spot.’ Then she casually said, ‘I guess he’s also worried about sex.’

Stevie put her glass down. ‘What?’

‘Don’t be coy, he’s a man; sex is never far from his mind.’

Stevie broke into a smile, ‘Well, now you mention it...’

‘When he gets home from hospital, he’s got to find some stairs to start practising on.’

Stevie laughed.

‘No, not that, you dag; I mean once he can climb two flights of stairs with no pain or breathlessness he can get back into it again.’

‘I’ll pass on your words of advice. I’m sure he’ll find them very comforting.’

Their burgers arrived and Stevie was running out of time. ‘Okay, Skye, spill it, what have you been up to?’

Skye’s eyes took on a worrying gleam. ‘Well, for a start, I think a lot more is going on with this Pavel case than Luke Fowler is capable of handling.’

Stevie frowned. ‘You and Fowler know each other, right?’ Whatever Skye thought of Fowler, Stevie got the feeling it was mutual.

‘No time to explain the sordid details of my life right now, but let’s just say we have a history and he hates my guts.’

‘Okay,’ Stevie said, ‘Change of topic. You said before you thought the baby was adopted.’

Skye swallowed one bite of burger and took another, speaking with her mouth full. ‘Yeah, it’s the obvious explanation seeing as both parents are Caucasian.’ She pulled a crumpled newspaper photo from her bag to remind Stevie what the Pavels looked like. The images were grainy, but Jon Pavel’s high forehead and blunt features spoke of an eastern European heritage. While not quite so obviously European, Delia’s small, mousy face could never have been mistaken for Asian.

‘Yes, Romanian, they’ve been in the country for about six years,’ Skye said. ‘I’ve no idea if the police are going any further with this, or if they’ve just given up and chucked the matter into the too-hard basket. A mate of mine in the DCP tried to dig up the adoption papers but hasn’t been able to find a thing.’

‘He’s probably telling you a furphy—what you asked him to do is a serious, sackable offence. Still,’ Stevie added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose the baby might have been adopted from overseas.’

‘That’s what I’m getting at. He was adopted overseas and the papers burned in the house fire last year. But is there any way you can follow through with Fowler on this? Just so we know all the bases are covered. I feel this might be important.’

‘No way, I’m keeping away from this.’ Stevie eyed her friend suspiciously. ‘Wait a minute, how did you know about the fire last year? The newspapers haven’t mentioned it.’

‘Just a bit of, er, networking.’ Skye’s gaze dropped to a sprinkling of crumbs on the table and she pushed them around with the stub of a black-painted fingernail.

‘Go on,’ Stevie prompted.

Skye took a breath. ‘Yesterday Mrs Hardegan’s phone was out of order. I needed to visit the neighbours on the other side to see if theirs was working—and it was by the way.’

‘And Mrs Hardegan’s was never broken anyway, you just needed an excuse for a chat.’

‘Muriel and David Blakeman are nice, friendly people, but they don’t like the Pavels at all. David said Jon Pavel was a slimy, inconsiderate wanker—my words—who he wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw. The Blakemans told me about the house fire, an electrical fault apparently. Jon Pavel was obnoxious even when they put him and his family up for that first night when they had nowhere else to go. The baby was only a couple of months old then.’

Stevie remembered the deli woman telling her how unpopular the Pavels were with the neighbours, although she wasn’t about to let Skye know she’d been doing some undercover snooping herself.

‘But I still got a lot more from Mrs Hardegan than I did the Blakemans.’

‘Hang on, tell me more about the old lady: she can’t be a reliable witness, surely?’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised, there’s not much escapes her, don’t be fooled by her crazy speech.’

‘So she understands what’s going on?’

‘You bet she does.’

‘Then why does she talk like that?’

‘The stroke was in the language centre of the left side of her brain, meaning it effects the right side of her body.’

Stevie’s mind stretched back to school biology lessons, something about the nerves crossing as they left the brain. ‘That’s why she’s weak down her right side?’

‘That’s right,’ Skye said. ‘She’s lucky, the stroke could’ve been a lot worse. Her speech difficulties aren’t as bad as they could be, difficulty with naming things mainly, confusing pronouns, et cetera. Her auditory comprehension and understanding are preserved, although her reading and writing are very much impaired. Every case is slightly different though—even with lesions in exactly the same place, no two people have quite the same symptoms.’

‘What about thought processes?’

‘Pretty good; but there can be personality changes. I didn’t know her before the stroke so I can’t say if her personality has been affected or not. She sure as hell doesn’t suffer fools, but I suspect that’s nothing new.’

‘Whatever, it must be very frustrating for her, she’s bound to get narky sometimes—I sure would.’ Stevie paused, took a sip of juice. ‘So, what did she tell you about the Pavels?

‘Seems she knew Delia Pavel quite well, was one of the few people in the street who got on with the both of them. Before the stroke she used to help out by watering the indoor plants when they went away—that’s why she still had the key to their front door. From what I could gather from Mrs H, they were unhappy because they couldn’t have children. Then an overseas agency organised a child for them and they were over the moon. But after they’d had Joshua for a couple of months, Delia seemed to fall into some kind of depression. Mrs H couldn’t explain it, but I reckon it must have been the reason behind the badly kept house, although she assured me the baby continued to be loved and well looked after. It wasn’t long after that Mrs H had her stroke and her memory of that time is a bit hazy. I tried to tell Fowler all this but he wouldn’t listen, even when I said I understood the old lady more than most. He’s just dismissed her as a loopy old woman and he already thinks I’m an interfering cow. He said he couldn’t see that the overseas adoption had any relevance at all. He even threatened me with a restraining order—can you imagine that?’

Stevie speculated on the reasons why a restraining order hadn’t been served already, or Skye charged with interfering with police business. Had this been her case, she certainly would have opted for one of the two. She wondered again about the history Fowler and Skye shared.

‘I can’t afford to let that happen,’ Skye went on. ‘I’m the only one who has any inkling what the poor old dear is saying. On top of all this drama with the Pavels, she’s really upset with her son who wants to sell the house from under her and put her in a Z-grade nursing home—her block’s worth a bomb, apparently. Pressure like this could easily cause another stroke. The long and the short of it is: in order for me to stay in contact with Mrs H, I’m going to have to hand the investigative reins over to you. ’

Stevie almost choked on her burger. ‘Oh no you don’t!’

‘But you’ve got so many resources at your fingertips. We found the baby together, for God’s sake! You can’t tell me that this affected you less than me. How can you not be interested?’ Skye hesitated. ‘And there’s two other things you need to know about, very important things that might make you more willing to help.’ She paused for breath, took a large swallow of her bile-coloured drink then rummaged in her handbag for a moment, producing a paper lunch bag. ‘I found it on the other side of the taped driveway quite close to the house, but in an area the police hadn’t searched. It might be important; then again it might be nothing, but if I were you I’d get it DNA tested.’

Stevie gaped at the bag Skye dangled like bait between her black-tipped fingernails.

‘Christ, you shouldn’t have this Skye—you shouldn’t even have touched it! If it is something important, the only DNA that would be on it now is yours, and the remains of a cheese and ham sandwich by the looks of it.’

Skye looked hurt. ‘I’ve seen how they do it on CSI; I used sterile forceps from my medical kit and the paper bag was clean. I didn’t give it to Sergeant Dickhead because I found it just after he’d finished screwing me over and told me to get lost, and I sure wasn’t going to go putting any feathers in his cap. Bugger him; he should have found it himself.’

Stevie tried to stay calm, wishing she had something stronger than orange juice on the table in front of her. ‘Okay, so what’s in the bag?’

Skye made as if to reach into it.

‘No, don’t touch it,’ Stevie warned. ‘Just open the bag up and show me the contents.’

Skye opened it so Stevie could peer inside.

‘It’s a button,’ Skye responded, oblivious to Stevie’s horrified look. ‘Silk-covered—very unusual and very pretty; I found it just outside the Pavels’ front gate the day after we discovered the baby. It has a small piece of pale green material still attached, as if it was snagged on something, the gate maybe, and ripped off. ’

Stevie pressed her hands to her eyes, feeling the onset of a headache. It was the same button she’d pointed out to the crime scene tech and he obviously hadn’t bothered to do anything about it.

‘Shit, Skye, what the hell did you think you were doing?’

Skye’s unprofessional handling of the button, the lack of a photograph and no other documentation to prove where it was found meant that it could never be used as evidence—but evidence of what? Stevie had no idea how seriously the local police were taking the possibility of foul play behind the disappearance of the Pavels. The newspaper reports suggested they were pursuing the original accident theory, though she knew this could easily be a blind to lull any possible offenders into a false sense of security—if only she knew the angle Fowler was working this.

There was only one thing she could do. She took the paper ‘evidence’ bag from Skye and put it in her briefcase. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to show this to Fowler.’

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Skye pulled a face and turned her head away.

‘You said there were two things I needed to know. What’s the second?’

For a moment Stevie thought Skye might refuse to tell her, but after shooting her a petulant look, continued. ‘One of my mates works on the same ward as the baby and knows all the medical tests the poor little bugger’s had.’ Skye licked dry, guilty lips. ‘And all the results.’

‘Go on.’

‘You know how no one had seen the Pavels for four days before we found the baby?’

Stevie nodded.

‘Well, didn’t you think it was amazing that the kid was still alive?’

‘It did cross my mind, but just because the parents hadn’t been seen for four days, doesn’t mean they’d been missing that long. One of them could have been hiding in the house for at least some of that time. Plus the baby was confined to the cot, couldn’t expend much energy, the weather was mild...’

‘Quite. Medical tests showed he’d only been deprived of food and fluid for two days max. But who was it who fed him and why did they stop? Stevie, can’t you see? We have to find out what the hell’s going on here.’ (Image 6.1)

Image 6.1

THURSDAY

CHAPTER SEVEN

Stevie needed time to prepare for the confrontation with Luke Fowler and it wasn’t until the next evening that she’d managed to arm herself with some relevant facts. She decided not to change out of her court clothes, putting her faith in the menacing effect of the dark suit and heels that made her taller than most men.

She was relieved to find him alone in the large open-plan office he shared with several detectives, and gratified to see his blue eyes widen with surprise when she pushed through the swing door unannounced.

‘Good evening, Sergeant Fowler.’ She slapped a single file upon the desk in front of him and sat on the visitors’ chair with her long legs crossed. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair, his tie pulled loose at the collar of his creased white shirt and the skin around his eyes was dark and pouched. On his desk sat a grubby computer monitor and a keyboard with letters worn to smudges.

He looked at her across a barricade of mugs, each holding a residual smear of coffee. ‘Ms, er...’ He recognised her, she could tell, but was too stunned by her sudden appearance to put a name to her face.

‘Senior Sergeant Hooper, Central,’ Stevie reminded him.

‘Ah yes...’ he made a searching movement with his hand.

‘We met a few days ago outside the Pavel house. You filed a complaint against me, said you’d get me dismissed. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am already?’

‘Of course not.’ He regarded her closely. ‘A grim business—on all counts.’

‘Very grim.’

‘So what is it I can do for you?’

Stevie put her hand into her pocket and removed Skye’s paper bag, carefully placing it on his desk. ‘This is a button found by Skye Williams just outside the taped crime scene and given to me. I thought you should have it.’

Fowler peered gingerly into the bag as if it might have a snake in it. His pink face turned violent red. ‘Good God, the vindictive little cow; she’s withheld this from me deliberately and now it’s completely useless—I can’t use this.’ He shoved the paper bag back at her. ‘I’ll have her charged for this.’

Stevie returned the button to her bag and snapped the clasp. ‘Yes, I suppose her actions could be seen as vindictive,’ she said, ‘just as your handling of the Pavel case could be seen as incompetent. You’ve been letting an incident between yourself and Skye Williams from nearly three years ago colour your dealings with her now, and you have ignored vital evidence from her as a result.’

Fowler slapped his hands upon his desk. ‘Jesus Christ, what the hell is it you want?’

‘Not your case, if that’s what you think. I’ve enough on my own plate. I want you to find the Pavels and I want you to show some respect for Skye.’

‘Your friend’s a whore. Are you aware of that, Hooper?’

Stevie expelled a breath: my God, this man had women issues. ‘She was a sex worker, and of course I’m aware of it. I’ve read the file. As far as I’m concerned it makes no difference to our friendship, just as it should have made no difference to you when she reported her rape to you almost three years ago. She was turning tricks to finance herself through uni. It might not be everyone’s idea of gainful employment, but it pays a lot better than flipping burgers.’

‘She’s a junkie.’

‘That’s a fabrication.’

‘She denies it?’

‘Skye hasn’t told me anything.’ Stevie tapped the folder on Fowler’s desk. ‘It’s all in here, including your negligent investigation of her case. Skye has never been a user; she wouldn’t have coped with the nursing curriculum if she had been. Christ, Fowler, no wonder you were transferred to Peppermint Grove. If it was me on the internal affairs panel I’d have dismissed you altogether.’

Clearly shaken, he didn’t answer, got up from his desk and turned his back, suddenly taking great interest in the drops of rain coursing down the window.

Stevie wasn’t enjoying this as much as she thought she would, but now she’d started she had to continue to the bitter end.

‘Skye was brutally assaulted by one of her customers and you refused to take her allegations seriously,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t until a sex worker was murdered months later that some bright spark pulled the file and linked the man to Skye’s assault. True to form, Skye didn’t stay silent. She went to your boss and told him how you’d treated her, which resulted in you being busted down to Peppermint Grove. And what a place.’ Stevie waved her arms around the tatty office with its dented desks and faded green walls. ‘One of the most affluent suburbs in WA, yet its cop shop is struggling to stay afloat. I guess the powers that be don’t think the occasional luxury car theft, home burglary and drug deals between private school kids warrant much of a budget. This place can hardly be a challenge to someone with your record.’

Fowler continued to stand at the window, his only movement the clenching and unclenching of fists at his side. Stevie hadn’t just hit a nerve, she realised—she’d severed a spinal cord.

‘You could have gone far, Fowler, your record was exemplary until then. You’d probably be an inspector in a specialist division if it weren’t for Skye Williams. No wonder you hate her guts.’ Stevie paused. ‘I guess you must have had friends in high places, keeping a lid on it, maybe out of respect for your late grandfather, the Commissioner.’

Stevie’s implication wasn’t lost on Fowler. Pull your finger out or I’ll start spreading it around further. You’ll never work in this town again...

Fowler cleared his throat and slowly turned to face her, the scar on his cheek red and angry against his skin. ‘So, what is it you want me to do?’

‘You can listen to what Skye has to say: for a start, she’s the only one who knows what the old lady is talking about.’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said, barely above a whisper.

Stevie hesitated; she hadn’t been expecting him to roll over quite so quickly. Her threat to spill the beans on him was no big deal; cops had done far worse and still maintained face with their colleagues.

‘Apparently Mrs Hardegan thinks there’s a lot more behind this than a tragic accident,’ she said, still trying to suss him out. ‘From what Skye can decipher, the old lady thinks it might have something to do with the baby’s adoption. I notice that was withheld from the newspapers, as was the house fire. Is that because you’re taking these as serious leads?’

‘I can’t dismiss either of them.’ He sank back into his desk chair.

‘Then why haven’t you referred this to a specialist crime squad? Are you still trying to redeem yourself, Sergeant Fowler? Do you think you can manage all this on your own?’

‘I didn’t think it necessary to bring in specialists at this stage. We still don’t know for sure if we’re dealing with a homicide or not.’

‘Then I suggest you talk to the old lady, using Skye as interpreter. What she says might help you make your decision.’ Stevie rose to leave. ‘And you can also do me the professional courtesy of keeping me informed about the investigation.’

She was at the door when Fowler’s subdued voice made her turn. ‘Foul play hasn’t been eliminated,’ he said. ‘You were right; there was blood under the couch. We think it’s Delia Pavel’s—at least the DNA matches various other samples taken from the house.’

Stevie walked back towards his desk, her interest in the case now piqued more than her desire to stamp him further into the ground. ‘I heard someone had been feeding the baby—for some of the time anyway.’

Fowler’s jaw dropped. ‘You heard? How?’

Surely it was obvious to him who her source at the hospital was. When she failed to elaborate, he said, ‘Yes, the doctors think that’s the case.’

‘Any idea who had been feeding him?’

‘There’s some speculation. As we’ve only found Delia’s blood in the house, it could mean Jon Pavel killed his wife and returned to feed the baby himself. On the other hand, neighbours did report seeing a woman around the house on two separate occasions. They didn’t know the Pavels were missing at that time and took her to have been a visitor.’

‘Description?’

‘Vague.’

‘But why would this person quit after two days?’

‘Well if it was Pavel, or a woman he was in collusion with, they might have known the baby would survive because they knew when it would be found.’

‘But how would they know that?’

Fowler shrugged. ‘Pavel was going to call us himself after he’d skipped the country?’

They both paused for thought; the theory did make a certain amount of sense. Finally Stevie said, ‘I’d like to look at your phone log.’

‘Why?’

‘Just bring it up on the computer please, Sergeant.’

Fowler frowned at his smudged monitor. ‘System’s a bit slow at the moment—I’ve got someone working on it.’

He rang for the log and it was brought up to his office by a uniformed constable. Stevie leaned into the desk and carefully traced her finger down the computer printout of a month’s worth of calls.

‘I can see Skye’s call listed, then mine after we found the baby; apparently Mrs Hardegan’s son Ralph also rang on behalf of his mother, but there’s no record of his call here,’ she said.

Fowler asked her to hand the printout over so he could have a look for himself. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed after a moment of sifting through the wide ribbon of reports. ‘Ralph Hardegan might not have cracked a mention, but read this.’

Stevie left her chair and looked to where his finger pointed, to a day dated two days before the baby’s discovery.

‘Anonymous female,’ she read, ‘called 1345, very distressed, unintelligible, officer could not understand complaint.’ Stevie paused. ‘The same message was repeated the next day. And you mean to tell me your guy didn’t report this to his supervisor?’

Fowler smoothed his hands over the wheat stubble on his head. ‘Shit.’

‘What is it with you Peppermint Grove people—are you The Misfits, The Dirty Dozen or what?’

‘I’ll have the desk sergeant’s head on a platter.’

Stevie puzzled over the problem aloud: ‘But who can this anonymous female be—Mrs Hardegan perhaps? Her speech is pretty unintelligible at times, some might think she has an accent.’

‘Or this could tie in with the theory that Pavel killed his wife to be with someone else. Can another Romanian woman who couldn’t speak English have been feeding the baby? Can she be the one who made the phone call?’

Their speculation was put to a halt by the ringing of the phone. It was a courtesy call from Swan Detectives. A body had just been found in the river at Middle Swan. They knew Fowler had been searching for the missing Pavels—would he be interested in joining them at the scene?

In the station’s ladies room, Stevie changed into spare clothes stored in the boot of her car, then accompanied Fowler in his own car, a silver-green vintage Bentley.

Stevie sank back into the soft leather seat, appreciating the walnut dash, the leg room, the smooth slap of the wipers as they headed into the rainy night.

‘Belongs to my old man,’ Fowler said somewhat self-consciously. ‘He wants me to buy it so it stays in the family. Thinks if I drive it for a while I’ll get to like it. I wouldn’t normally have it at work, didn’t think I’d be going out tonight...’

They said little else on the drive, settled into an uneasy truce, Stevie luxuriating in the car’s opulence, Fowler sitting stiffly behind the wheel. By the time they arrived at the riverbank the rain had weakened to a drizzle but the wind had become a gale, bending the red gums on the riverbank into the shapes of poor distressed souls. This stretch of the river at Middle Swan was familiar to Stevie, close to the hostel where she’d boarded as a high school student.

Powerful lights erected at a parking area near the scene reflected on the choppy water, a moving palette of glaring brightness and sinister shadows.

Low voices, muffled shapes.

A burst of lightning morphed into the flash of a police photographer’s camera.

The wind blew fresh and moist against Stevie’s cheeks. Turning up the collar of her waterproof jacket she followed Fowler to the police vehicles clustered near the river’s edge. His shape was illuminated in the yellow cut of headlights as he walked, his hands deep in the pockets of his Drizabone, shoulder flaps blown by the wind. They picked their way across the slippery grass, the scent of mud and algae stronger with every step. A tree grew on the riverbank, one branch stretching across the choppy water, a swinging rope dangling. They used to play truant at this stretch of the river, Stevie remembered, swinging from the bank, their tanned bodies plopping like sinkers into the brown water.

But the tree hadn’t seemed sinister then.

Next to the four-wheel drives a group of police, in yellow coats with luminous armbands, were gathered around the bundled body. One man left the group to shake Fowler’s hand. Stevie wasn’t introduced to the Swan detective, Joe Burridge. She knew she should be appreciating this feeling of unlicensed distance, the lack of responsibility, but with no procedural guidelines and no fixed role to play in the investigations, she found her emotions heightened, drowning the objectivity on which she usually depended.

The photographer, having finished his task, stepped back to give Fowler some room.

‘Is it her?’ Burridge asked Fowler who squatted down next to the sodden form. Stevie looked for a moment and then averted her eyes.