He lined up his medication bottles beside the radio. Sertraline, 200 mg. Temazepam, 15 mg. Mag phos, as required. Nexium, 10 mg.
He walked to the windows and lifted the curtain rod down off the hooks. Sliding the heavy grey curtains off the rod and folding them carefully, he pulled his own navy curtains from a suitcase and replaced them. Setting the rod back in place, he stepped back.
‘. . . meanwhile, the search has officially ended for the night due to bad weather. But dedicated individuals from the community – including extended family members and friends of the missing girls – have refused to stop their search. They will continue throughout the night with spotlights and wet-weather gear, against the strong advice of emergency services . . .’
The framed photographs on the walls – Australian forests and aerial shots of the Great Western Tiers – Con stowed in the wardrobe. In their place he put up a framed photo of his parents, a photo of his cohort from the academy, and a group shot of him and his Sydney mates. He stacked a few books he’d been reading on the dressing table, although he knew he wouldn’t get to them.
He placed his laptop in the middle of the oak desk, beside the coffee machine, and his own bright LED desk lamp replaced those trendy golden lamps. When he switched on the TV it showed a re-run of House Rules; Con left it, the volume turned low, adding to the background noise of the radio.
His pistol he placed on the bedside table and he slipped a cricket bat under the other side of the bed. Finally, he took his much-lighter suitcases off the bed and replaced the bedcover and sheets with his own – navy, the same colour as the curtains.
When he was done, to his immense shame, his throat itched and his eyes began to leak. He rubbed them. It sometimes happened at the end of a long day. He ordered room service – a chicken parmi – that arrived in record time. He chewed it thoughtfully, mind on the case, then rinsed the plate in the bathroom sink before leaving it neatly outside the door.
He checked the thermostat and stripped naked. He left his damp clothes beside the bed and then walked into the open shower. As the water fell down onto the back of his neck, steam billowing around him, he unwrapped the complimentary soap and began to think.
Schoolgirls lost in the bush . . . schoolgirls taken from the bush? A string of disappearances decades earlier . . . a resurgence . . . a copycat?
His mind went back to the blood on the drink bottle, and Eliza’s testimony.
Eliza’s head injuries . . . Eliza’s shoes . . . the Oz effect . . .
He hadn’t wanted this case. The commander had told him that morning that it was probably just girls lost in the bush, that he’d most likely be sleeping in his own bed back in Launceston that night.
Of course he had been assigned to this case. He always got the cases involving teenagers or kids. Because he was good at them. When he transferred from Sydney, he’d just solved one of the biggest cases involving . . . well, he’d been too late to save anyone, but still, he had solved it . . .
The theories would come. They always did.
A transfer to Tasmania. Not even to the busy part of Tasmania – if the word “busy” could ever be applied to Tasmania. He needed the break, but he wasn’t going to give up his job. He was good at it. Even the commander thought so. She was the one who advocated for him to come here. Not a leave of absence. He wouldn’t leave. When he was doing something, it felt good.
Alright. Focus, Cornelius. What are the interesting points about this case? Jasmine is the daughter of a possible drug dealer. Jasmine fought with Madison and had a cut lip. Cierra and Madison are twins: is that important? Madison has some YouTube channel, and she’d split from the rest of the group before they disappeared. Tomorrow, I’ll need to make time to talk to her. And Georgia saw a bear-man . . .?
He began to consider the suspects.
In the safety of his own mind, he used the alignment system from Dungeons & Dragons, a system from his childhood and one that he’d always used since joining the force, but one he would never, ever admit to. It was a matrix used to categorise ethical and moral perspectives: good versus evil, lawful versus chaotic, and neutral right in the middle.
Good and evil were self-explanatory. But lawful and chaotic . . . that was the category that had always fascinated Con.
‘Lawful’ implied someone adhered to a system, some code or set of rules. ‘Neutral’ meant they had no qualms about hurting people, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to do so for no reason. And ‘chaotic’: no governing logic to their behaviour except their own desires.
Slowly, using the system, he worked through the possibilities. He stepped out of the shower, dried with a towel, and typed up his current list of suspects on his laptop.
1. Eliza Ellis (& accomplice?) – Neutral Evil?
2. Jordan Murphy – Lawful Evil
3. Unknown Drug Agent – Lawful Evil
4. Unknown Sexual Predator – Chaotic Evil
5. Mentally-Ill Psychopath (?) – Chaotic Evil
6. Bear-Man – Who the hell knows
Con hesitated before adding a final suspect:
7. The Hungry Man of 1985 – ? Evil
He snorted softly and deleted the final line.
He saved the file, closed the laptop and slipped into bed.
A second later, he returned to the laptop. He opened the file and quickly added the Hungry Man again.
He went back to bed, swallowed his medications, flicked the lamp off. Outside, the rain howled and beat against his windows.
When he finally slipped into sleep, the girls from his last case in Sydney – the Jaguar’s victims – strolled into his mind. Their beaten faces and bloody limbs. They were screaming for his help. But he was, as always, too late to save them.
CHAPTER 9
ELIZA
It was morning at the hospital.
Eliza stood in the bathroom attached to her ward, naked, looking at herself in the mirror, heart beating fast. Slightly dizzy – slightly nauseated. But she’d had a shower and was beginning to regain some sense of self.
Lungs tight, stomach clenched, eyes on the brink of tears.
It’s my fault.
Her twin sister, Monica, had brought her a bag of clothes, as well as toiletries and make-up and jewellery. Monica was waiting, right now, out on Eliza’s bed. It had been easy to pack Eliza a bag – most of Eliza’s things were at Monica’s house already. Ever since Denni had killed herself, Eliza had been living with Monica and her husband, Tom.
Eliza dried herself slowly, looking over her scrapes and bruises. She dressed. Underwear, make-up, clothes, jewellery.
She stood before herself, feeling a little renewed. She wore her spare glasses – round-wire rims, big and retro. She wore a grey knit sweater, blue jeans, flats. Gold hoop earrings. The nurse still wanted to re-dress the wound on the back of her head, but she felt a little more normal. Just in so much pain.
No matter what anyone says, it’s all my fault.
She examined the cut over her brow, a butterfly stitch holding it in place. She dabbed more foundation over the bruise on her cheek. She wanted to hide what had happened to her – she didn’t deserve the sympathy.
She thought of Wren – Monica’s little girl. Then she thought of her and Monica’s older sister Kiera, who was Denni’s mother. Denni, with her underage tattoos and her sense of humour and her long brown side-braid.