Over Rosie’s shoulder, Eliza saw Gabriella and Coops glance at each other. Confusion was clear on Coops’ face, but Gabriella only looked strangely excited, her eyes sparkling.
There came loud knocking from the door. Coops went to answer, and returned with two elderly women. The family resemblance was clear, and the way Rosie threw herself into their arms confirmed it. Together the three women howled their grief, and Rosie was bundled away into the tiny lounge room and onto the threadbare couch.
Gabriella grabbed Eliza by the shoulder and steered her into the corridor. ‘Can you show us her bedroom?’ she whispered. ‘We just want to have a look around, and time may be of the essence. Rosie already gave us permission. Or at least, I think she nodded when we asked. It’s not until today that they’ve even let any cops inside to look. We were working on getting a warrant . . .’
‘What do you hope to find?’ whispered Eliza.
‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Gabriella. ‘But do you know what Rosie meant, about the mountain needing G—’ She caught herself, looking around the walls of the house. ‘Needing the girl?’
‘Yes. You’ll see . . .’ It was a small bedroom already, but the large table taking up the centre dominated the space.
‘What’s this?’ said Gabriella, stepping immediately up to the table.
Upon it sat a scale model of a wide, sweeping building, with a large flagpole rising from the centre peak, waving a miniature Aboriginal flag.
‘This was her dream. The Kooparoona Niara Aboriginal Heritage Museum,’ said Eliza. The display was a mixture of architectural and trainset models. Georgia had even included tiny people, lazing in the picnic area, walking through the outdoor gallery, lining up at the coffee stand. ‘She wanted to build an Aboriginal history museum, right here in Limestone Creek. And she would’ve done it, too. She had what it took.’
Gabriella examined the contents of a folder. ‘Permit applications . . .’ She picked up a large hardcover book. ‘A book about property law.’
Coops read out the titles of the books scattered on the floor. ‘The Aboriginal Tasmanians, The Black War, Whitewash . . .’
One of the papers that littered the floor caught Eliza’s eye, because it had her own handwriting across the bottom: giving feedback on an essay. With another pang, she picked it up. As the detectives rummaged through the rest of the room, speculating aloud to each other on whether the museum might give someone the motive to kill Georgia, Eliza wiped her eyes and began to read.
The Mountain of the Spirits, by Georgia Lenah
At the bottom of the world, there is an island.
It has the purest air in the world, the purest water. It is a land of rugged wilderness, of ice and snow, blistering heat, the oldest trees on earth, deep lakes of which no man nor machine has found the bottom. A fifth of the island is protected, where no business can exploit nor industrialise, and precious little can be reached by road. They say extinct tigers still roam there. They say other things roam, too. Strange lights haunt the night sky and unearthly howls the bushland.
It is the location of one of the earliest recorded genocides, cannibals and convicts, the introduction of psychological torture of inmates, Australia’s biggest massacre. Its name once brought fear to people’s hearts; it is said the soil still cries from the blood of its First Peoples, and that their bones curse the land.
If you believe in such things.
Near the top of the island, in the centre, at the edge of the Central Plateau, is a rocky mountain range. These days it is called the Great Western Tiers. But always it was called Kooparoona Niara. It was a sacred place, a meeting ground, and a pass. They say it is the gate to Tasmania’s heart.
It is a place of changing weather, silence, brooding and looming menace, secret caves and urban legends and murderers who once made it their stalking ground.
It is a mountain that, they say, takes care of itself.
If you believe in such things.
Eliza shuddered. She put the paper down beside her.
‘What is this?’ said Gabriella, picking it up and raising her eyebrows as she began to read.
‘Maybe this will help,’ said Coops. He was lying beside the bed, holding up a purple book he’d pulled from under it. ‘I think it’s her diary.’
‘Perfect,’ said Gabriella, taking it out of his hands.
‘Put that down – it’s none of your fucking business,’ said a gruff male voice from the doorway. ‘Why are you pigs in my sister’s room?’ A short young man stood there, in a muddy t-shirt and football shorts, dark brows narrowed. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he seemed unaware of them. ‘Get out.’
‘Calm down, Carl,’ said Eliza. ‘They’re the police.’
‘I know who they are. I want them out of her room.’
‘I’m sorry, I know this is hard,’ said Gabriella. ‘But a diary is important, it could help us build a picture of what might have happened.’
‘Get out,’ Carl snarled. He lunged for the diary.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ shouted Coops, as Gabriella deftly caught the boy’s wrist and pulled it back on itself. Carl let out a howl and Gabriella let him go, but kept her eye on him.
Carl balled his fists. ‘Give it back or I’ll kill you.’
‘I’m really sorry. Carl, is it?’ said Coops. ‘It’s important for us to use everything we can to try to find out what happened to your sister, to bring back the other girls.’
‘Like you give a fuck about my sister, pig.’
‘Carl, please,’ said Eliza. ‘Mum needs you right now.’ Carl glared at Eliza for a moment. They could still hear Rosie’s anguish at the other end of the house. ‘She really, really needs you . . .’
He stalked out of the room.
Gabriella looked back down at Georgia’s diary. ‘Good job, Eliza.’
Suddenly one of Rosie’s relatives rushed into the room. A red mark was across her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he’s going to your car!’
Cursing, Gabriella ran out the door.
Coops approached the woman slowly. ‘Your cheek – are you alright?’
‘It’s fine. I hit myself on the door.’ Tears welled and spilled over. ‘He’s not himself right now.’
A moment later his radio crackled. ‘I’ve got him, Coops,’ said Gabriella. ‘He started scratching a lovely message into the car. K-U-N . . .’
Coops sighed through his nose, ruffling his moustache. ‘Can’t even spell . . .’ Eliza followed him outside.
There was now a small crowd of Rosie’s family in the driveway – more had arrived – and they were clustered around the police car, getting drenched in the rain. Eliza and Coops pushed through the people to find Gabriella, nursing her forearm and a red bite mark, swearing profusely. Carl was nowhere to be seen.
‘He bit me,’ said Gabriella. ‘The little feral.’
Her words invoked a reaction from the crowd, who began buzzing dangerously. Coops immediately put his radio to his mouth. ‘This is Detective Coops, requesting back-up. Young male on the run; needed for questioning and assault of a police officer. Carl Lenah. He’s just taken off on a dirtbike – brown helmet, orange bike.’