Stoppard paled, squeezing her arm so hard now she thought it would break. She shouldn’t have said that. Oh God, he really was going to kill her now, he was. Stupid stupid stupid. He stared at her so hard she could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain.
One side of his lip curled and finally he spoke. ‘You little bitch, true or not, you’ll live just long enough to regret this.’
Taking her hand, he yanked her down the front passageway of the Chateau, kicking at the broken shards of pottery and negotiating his way around the puddles of water. ‘Don’t slip,’ he said, ‘there’s a good girl. My mates don’t do damaged goods.’
‘So, just what were these clues that Emma was supposed to have left for us in her bedroom?’ Tash asked as they sped towards the blue haze of the hills, lights flashing and siren wailing.
‘I can only think it was the postcard of Stoppard’s chateau. The Mexican throw rug might have been a clue too I suppose, the guy imports Mexican art. But if it hadn’t been for the appearance of that story on the web page, I don’t think I’d have put two and two together.’
‘Has Stoppard been picked up yet?’
‘No, he left the Breightlings at midday, said he was going to his office in the city, but he wasn’t there when the uniforms went to fetch him. He wasn’t at his Terrace apartment either.’
‘Do you think he’s out there already?’
Stevie shook her head and shrugged. If he was, she didn’t know who was in the greater danger, Stoppard or Emma.
Tash creased her brows as she thought. ‘Is she really capable of murder you think?’
Damn! It was uncanny how they’d share a line of thinking. It took a moment for Stevie to answer. She was thinking about the long dark hair found in Kusak’s car. When at last she did speak, she had trouble finding her voice, as if her own ears did not wish to hear the truth. ‘Yeah, y’know, I think she might be. She’s not your average kid.’
They drove a short way in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Stevie tried to remind herself not to make preemptive judgements until they’d gathered more facts; the presence of one hair did not make Emma a murderer.
She had Tash ring around until she came up with an after hours number for Donna French, the counsellor at Emma’s school. It was a frustrating conversation, the psychologist reluctant to tell Stevie anything about Emma’s history other than what she already knew: that she was a gifted child and kept down for a year at school because of poor hearing at an early age.
‘Shit, Donna,’ Stevie found herself losing patience. ‘This kid could be in real danger. Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?’
‘If she’s in danger, then you need to find her. You don’t need her psychological profile. Patient confidentiality, Stevie.’
‘Then give me a generic run-down of a gifted child,’ she snapped.
She heard Donna sigh. ‘Okay, but this isn’t necessarily Emma Breightling, right?’
‘Go on.’
‘You’d be amazed at how many gifted children get misdiagnosed because often their behaviour is thought to be ADHD.’
‘Emma was kept down because of glue ear, was she also thought to be ADHD?’
Donna ignored her. ‘Impatience, restlessness, easily bored, you can see how sometimes giftedness can be confused with ADHD. Certain personality factors also often accompany high intellect and creativity that can be very difficult for both parents and teachers alike. Power struggles between the child with parents and teachers are not uncommon.’
‘I can see that with the mother,’ Stevie interrupted.
‘The gifted child was once only assessed within the very narrow framework of academic achievement, meaning that the personality problems afflicting such children were often disregarded. Things are changing, thank goodness, and the psychology of such children is now getting more research. They can end up as very disturbed kids if not handled correctly, on rare occasions even multiple personality disorders develop.’
‘Multiple personalities—you have to be joking!’ Tash exclaimed.
There was a pause while Donna attempted to identify the voice.
‘Detective Constable Hayward,’ Stevie told her, a finger on her lips to Tash.
Donna regained her stride. ‘Yes, but as I said, MPD is very rare. Gifted children tend to feel emotions intensely, they are sensitive and idealistic, the downside being that they are susceptible to feelings of anxiety and helplessness, and in turn, depression. They get intensely frustrated with those who don’t feel as deeply as themselves.’
‘Does Emma have many friends?’ Stevie asked.
‘They are often ostracised by their peers, seen by them as know-it-alls, nerds or even freaks.’
‘Emma seems to prefer to hang out with younger kids.’
‘I can’t comment.’
‘She seems to have an intense desire to help vulnerable children.’
‘It goes with the territory.’
‘What about committing a crime? Would a child like this see the ends as justifying the means?’
‘Stevie, it’s all just speculation, I really can’t say...’
‘Thanks, Donna. Thanks a lot.’
Stevie hung up, put her foot to the floor and joined Tash in a medley of curses aimed at the blur of scenery speeding by the car window. It wasn’t Donna’s fault, Stevie said when they’d both calmed down, Donna had said all she could within the constraints of the job. She told Tash she’d ring Donna back later when the shit had stopped hitting the fan, when they’d found Emma.
Next she tried to call Monty at the hospital, but they wouldn’t let her speak to him while he was still being examined. The nurse assured Stevie that his condition was stable. Perhaps it was just as well they couldn’t talk, she thought with a sigh, it would’ve been impossible with Tash in the car too. There was much she needed to tell him, and it wasn’t all about Emma and the case.
Tash turned the siren off as they left the city and the traffic behind. They were silent again. Stevie didn’t know what she was most afraid of finding.
A steep driveway, about a kilometre long, was the only way to reach Aidan Stoppard’s country showroom. Stevie and Tash bumped their way down the poorly maintained bitumen as they headed towards a valley hemmed in by hills of dense jarrah. It was twilight, but they could still make out the shine of the lake and the faux-turreted Chateau spooning around the curve of its southern edge. Full-grown deciduous trees dotted the lawns and beneath them sprouted the silhouettes of squat figures with bulging eyes, protruding ears and swollen tongues. Stoppard’s Mexican artwork Stevie presumed, and shivered.
From a good distance she could see Stoppard’s Porsche parked in a carport next to a high wall surrounding the shore side of the building. There were no windows overlooking them, so she switched off the engine and coasted in silently, rolling to a stop behind his car, blocking it off should there be any attempt at a getaway.
Neither of them spoke. Tash reached under her jacket and checked her gun. An iron-studded Judas door in a larger wooden door in the surrounding brick wall seemed to be the only way in.
‘It was a magic, fairy tale kind of a place,’ Stevie remembered Emma telling Izzy. ‘Part castle and part luxury villa, and it was built over a lake where a billion waterlilies grew.’
And here it was, just as she had said, and just as pictured on Stoppard’s business card and the postcard. Stevie slipped on her shoulder holster, covered it with her denim jacket, and grabbed a torch from the glove box. In the twilight, objects had begun to take on a grainy texture.
She indicated for Tash to check the lakeside of the Chateau, while she explored the garden side. She found no other doors or windows, though halfway along the wall was a small opening with a heavy iron door, much like an old-fashioned coal chute. The door remained rigid when she pushed against it. She rubbed the rust from her palms onto the seat of her jeans.
Tash was waiting for her back at the Judas door. ‘There’s no getting around the side of the Chateau, unless you want to swim for it,’ she whispered.
Stevie explained that the garden side was similarly inaccessible while she pushed against the Judas door, then the larger door in which it was situated, finding both locked. She tipped her head toward the wall, cupping her hands as a step for Tash. Then with a couple of heaves and a jump she was on the other side of the wall herself, standing in the courtyard next to her.
The dying light caught the shine of waterfalls and ornamental ponds, birdbaths and the umbrella shapes of palms. An eccentric set of stone steps spiralled their way up a tower almost as tall as a lighthouse, looming on her right hand side. Through its small windows she saw the shadowy shapes of more Mexican gargoyles.
Light shone from under the front door; two small windows on either side of it were heavily curtained. They moved silently across the moss covered paving, following a small, unfenced path along the side of the building, the only margin between the rough walled chateau and the lake.
A floating jetty fingered its way from the path. Stevie could just make out the shape of a diving board at its end and a tethered rowboat. A fish jumped and broke the stillness of the dark water, sending out ripples of silver bangles. From across the lake, she heard the low muttering of roosting chooks. Perhaps the boat was used to row to the island to gather eggs. This place would be a paradise for kids. No wonder Emma used it as her home base for Katy Enigma.
They crept towards the back of the Chateau and came across a small paved barbecue area accessed by some partially closed French doors through which a sheet of light flooded. Water lapped at some semi-submerged steps leading from the paving into the lake. Under the surface, the shadows of great fish glided like submarines.
The detectives stood on either side of the French doors and watched Stoppard move about the room, walking between a stereo system and a large oak table on which several cardboard boxes had been placed. The delicate strains of Pachelbel’s Canon floated past them, tripping over the golden light before disappearing into the darkness of the lake beyond, while the deep bass steps of the cello lingered on.
The ceilings of the room were as high as a medieval banquet hall, but instead of shields and weapons, the walls were covered with hanging masks: gargoyle heads with horns and pointy beards, bared fangs and mouths shaped in silent screams. Price tags dangled from the masks. A huge carved wooden throne with a red and white ‘special’ sign sat in a corner.
Stevie shivered.
Tash gripped her arm. ‘You ready?’ she mouthed.
Stevie straightened from her crouch, counted to ten, then opened the French doors with a flourish.
‘Bloody hell!’ Stoppard dropped the box he’d just lifted from the table.
‘Good evening Mr Stoppard,’ she said, shutting the doors behind them.
Tash moved to the stereo and turned the music off. She took a moment to gaze around the room, her eyes settling on the table covered in boxes. ‘What’ve you got here, thinking about moving house?’ Tash delved into a box and pulled out a fistful of CDs and DVDs. Another box clearly contained photographic equipment, a tripod leaning against the table next to it.
Stoppard’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, wait, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘We have reason to believe Emma Breightling’s here somewhere in this house,’ Stevie said.
‘Well I can assure you she’s not. I’d appreciate it if you took your sticky paws off of my things; some of my equipment is very delicate. You can’t just barge into a man’s house like this and start rummaging around with his things.’ His mother tongue became more emphasised as his diction sped up, Stevie noticed; he was saying
wiv,
not with, and
fings.
‘We can if we have reason to believe a life might be in danger.’
‘Crap!’
Stevie pointed to the table. ‘What’s all this stuff for, anyway?’
Stoppard managed to call back some of his composure, reverting once more to an Australian rhythm of speech. He dismissed her question with a casual wave. ‘It’s a corporate video I’m having filmed here. Some footage has already been taken. The crew are coming back next weekend to finish it off.’
‘For the showroom? Interesting.’ Stevie looked at the numbered covers of the DVDs. ‘Not much on the labels, but I guess you must have some kind of an index of what’s what.’ She gazed around the room, seeing no sign of a TV. It would have been interesting to see what was on those DVDs.
‘There’s an index somewhere around. Maybe one of the crew has it.’ He smiled, fingered the curl behind his ear and looked her in the eyes. ‘You still haven’t told me what this is all about.’
Stevie tilted her head to Tash. ‘Carry on.’
Tash climbed some wooden stairs leading up out of the hall. They heard a thump on the floor above their heads, the sound of a door creaking open.
‘Sit down, Mr Stoppard,’ Stevie pointed to a heavy backed chair at the table. ‘We need to question you further about the disappearance of Emma Breightling.’
Stoppard dropped into the chair, folded his arms and crossed his legs. His white pants were streaked with what appeared to be mud.
‘What’s that from?’ Stevie indicated the dirt.
‘Burying bodies, what do you think?’ When Stevie didn’t return his smile, he sighed. ‘A bit of impromptu gardening—c’mon officer, I’ve already told you what I know.’
‘You were told by the officers that we might need to contact you again. You gave them a mobile phone number that you have not been answering. You said you would either be at your city office or your apartment, but you weren’t at either of those places when they called around.’
‘I asked if I could go home, they said yes. This is my home too.’
‘You gave me your card, but you never mentioned this place to anyone else. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself now about giving it to me. A bit over confident, weren’t you?’
Stoppard pursed his lips. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘Yes you do. You’ve been abusing Emma Breightling.’
He threw his eyes to the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, where did you get that from, her father? Nothing but the ranting of a desperate man whose child is missing. I’ve never touched Emma and I’ll sue anyone for slander who says I did. You’ve no bloody proof.’