‘Then a bloke come out, opened up the back door and grabbed hold of this heavy thing,’ the old man said. ‘At first I thought he was just some mug dumping rubbish illegally. He threw the thing onto the skip and climbed onto it, scrabbling around for a bit like he was trying to bury something. I radioed it in from here while I watched him.’
‘He drove through the mesh fence, and you just stood and watched?’ Monty said.
‘What the hell else was I supposed to do at my age and with my back? Besides there was another fella sitting in the front seat, I wouldn’t have stood a chance if they got aggro. The fella on the skip must have seen me, I reckon, cos he jumped down real quick and scarpered back to his truck and took off.’
Wayne frowned and said to the man, ‘You didn’t mention this second person before, Mr Browne, did you get a look at him?’
‘Yeah, well, I only just remembered him didn’t I? Nah, I didn’t hardly see him.’
Monty wondered how he could have forgotten this, wondered just how drunk the old man really was.
‘And this second man didn’t get out and help the first man at all, he just sat there, watching?’ Wayne said, meeting Monty’s eyes.
Browne must have sensed their doubt. ‘I’m telling you what I saw, mate, no more, no less.’
‘But surely you weren’t alone here?’ Monty spun on his heels and waved his arms around. ‘This place is huge.’
‘George was over the other side with the dog. Every half an hour or so we take it in turns to do a circuit.’
‘And where’s George now?’
‘I sent him home, boss,’ Wayne said. ‘He saw nothing. But Mr Browne here got a good look at the bloke who took the body from the car and he’s given us a detailed description and the rego.’
Fair enough, Monty thought, calming himself; old Mr Browne had probably done them the greater service. If he had tried to apprehend the men they might very well have had two victims on their hands.
Wayne read from his notebook, ‘Khaki coloured Toyota Troop Mover licence number MDG 76X. Scene of crime officers also found skid marks and tyre prints matching that kind of vehicle. The guy is described as short and stocky with darkish curly hair, late forties to early fifties.’
‘Anything else you can add, sir?’ Monty asked the old man.
‘Nah, can I go home now, mate?’
Monty said he could. The detectives stood in a group and watched him hobble off until he was out of earshot.
‘Jesus,’ Barry smoothed his bald head. ‘Iron Bar Security must’ve scratched the bottom of the barrel for that one.’
‘He had a half bottle of bourbon sticking up from his holdall,’ Wayne added. ‘Not exactly a reliable witness, he never even mentioned a second man the first time around.’
‘He’s all we’ve got at the moment,’ Monty said.
‘I hope to God he’s wrong. One child killer is bad enough, a team of them’s a bloody nightmare.’
‘At least we’ve got the rego—have you run it?’ Monty asked Wayne.
‘Waiting on it now. Meanwhile the developer of the site and the builder are on their way. They’re not going to be too happy when they hear that work will have to be halted for a few days.’
‘A darn sight happier than the kid’s mother, I’m sure,’ Monty muttered.
There was an uncomfortable silence, some shuffling of feet. Barry cleared his throat. ‘So who gets the short straw?’
Monty had no idea how Mrs Webster would react to the news that they had found her daughter’s body. All he knew was that he couldn’t face her alone. Angus Wong, his first choice, was briefing the local police and unavailable. That left bald Barry with the grin of Alfred from
Mad
magazine, or Wayne Pickering who looked like something freshly exhumed from a graveyard—on a good day.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t be either of you.’ He turned to Wayne. ‘As soon as we get a name for that car, haul the owner in.’ Then to Barry he said. ‘You stay here. No comment to the press yet. I’ll give a statement when I’ve informed the next of kin. Help with the search, tell SOCO everything in that skip needs to be sifted, the whole building site thoroughly scoured and secured. You’ll need to get more uniforms in and get some door knocking underway.’
Monty reached for his phone and called Stevie.
EXCERPT FROM CHAT ROOM TRANSCRIPT 071106
BETTYBO has entered the chat room
HARUM SCARUM: were u been?
BETTYBO: Sry. Things bad hear. He cam round agin.
HARUM SCARUM: wats rong? He hrt u?
BETTYBO: pir
BETTYBO has left chat room
There wasn’t much traffic at ten o’clock at night and it didn’t take Stevie long to drive from Cottesloe to Shenton Park where the heady scent of frangipani replaced the briny tang of the sea. She parked her unmarked car between the other police Commodore and a white Ford Escort, outside a block of state housing flats. A beige rectangle with clunky concrete balconies, Shenton Rise wasn’t much to look at, but it did offer a pleasant view of the floodlit park on the other side of the road.
Monty joined her on the footpath and briefly took her hand. ‘Was there any problem getting Mrs Nash to mind Izzy?’
‘She was watching the late movie, didn’t seem to mind switching venues to watch it at your place. I said I wouldn’t be long.’
He filled her in on the details as they scuffed up the stairs. They climbed slowly, the caged lights on every level casting a crisscross of shadows across the graffiti-streaked walls. Had this been a prison or a place of refuge for little Bianca Webster? Stevie wondered.
They heard a door slam from the floor above, then the sound of heavy footsteps echoing around the stairwell. Seconds later a man pushed passed them on the stairs, shoving Stevie against the handrail.
‘Hey, watch where you’re going, mate!’ Monty called out.
Stevie glimpsed a stocky, denim-clad figure. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ the man said, leaving a trail of beer fumes behind him.
Monty mumbled under his breath and moved quickly down a couple of steps as if to follow him. The feint worked, the footsteps sped up and the man made a hasty escape, slamming the door of the stairwell behind him.
Stevie and Monty made their way along the verandah until they came to number 34.
Monty took a breath and knocked. ‘Here goes nothing.’
Stevie would never forget the first time she’d been the bearer of tragic news; a twenty-two year old PC telling a forty-five year old woman that her son had died in a car crash had seemed unnatural. She knew it was only the authority of her uniform that had let her get away with it. No uniform necessary these days, she mused, with age and parenthood the universal leveller.
The thin woman who opened the door had one arm in a greying sling. The sudden movement of her free hand to her mouth sent a draught of cigarette smoke wafting at them through the flyscreen. Despite their civvies they radiated the unmistakable aura of cop to Stella Webster.
They’d decided earlier that Stevie would do the talking. ‘Mrs Webster? I’m DS Stephanie Hooper and this is Inspector Monty McGuire. May we come in?’
Stella Webster barely glanced at the ID Monty pressed against the screen door. Her nose was red and inflamed and her watery eyes fixed on Stevie, searching her face for assurances she could not give.
They were led into a small, airless lounge room. The furniture was dated and minimal, the place clean except for an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table, an empty beer can on its side next to it. A few knick-knacks on the shelf above the gas fireplace saved the place from total sterility and dreariness.
The woman wrapped her free arm around her injured one. She turned her back to them and spoke to a movie poster of
The Titanic
tacked to the wall. Stevie stared at it too, thinking how appropriate it was.
‘I hope you weren’t trying to reach me earlier. I had to get out for a bit. I shouldn’t have gone, the cops said I had to wait near the phone, but I had my mobile with me, so I thought what difference does it make? I went into Subiaco, couldn’t bear waiting around at home for news on my own. If she’d been kidnapped and they’d wanted a ransom, they’d have rung me on that wouldn’t they, I mean—’
The woman dropped her head and her thin shoulders began to shake. Stevie noticed a red area on her neck where the knot of the sling had rubbed. She crooked her head at Monty, indicating the kitchen, which was separated from the lounge by a breakfast bar. He nodded, a look of relief on his face. Taking off his suit jacket he began to bustle about.
Stevie guided Stella Webster to a cracked vinyl couch and sank down beside her. She could tell by the woman’s stiff posture she knew the news was not good, but she still had to spell it out. ‘Stella, I’m afraid a dead body matching Bianca’s description has been found.’
Stevie tensed and waited for the barrage of anguished questions: where, when, how, by whom? And, most critical, did she suffer?
Monty was filling the kettle at the kitchen sink. He turned the tap off and stood as if holding his breath. Like her he was thinking of Izzy, thinking how it would be for them if the tables had been turned.
‘I shouldn’t have gone out,’ Stella managed before the tears began to fall.
Stevie resisted the temptation to put her arm around the woman. In her experience, overt gestures of sympathy often did more harm than good. ‘It doesn’t matter, Stella, it wouldn’t have made any difference,’ she said, gently.
‘Not today maybe, but all the other times, the double shifts, the overtime, I left her alone too much.’ The woman patted the pocket of her shapeless pinafore dress and frantically looked around the room. Stevie offered her a cigarette and lit it for her, her own hands shaking so much it was hard to catch the tip with the flame. She could imagine herself reacting in the same way if something happened to Izzy—the guilt first, always the guilt.
She said, ‘We’re going to need to ask you some questions, Stella. We can come back in the morning if you like...’
‘But now would be better,’ Stella finished for her. ‘I know all about this, seen it on TV often enough. You have to act fast; every hour that passes lessens the chances.’ She choked on a sob. ‘But time has run out for Bianca, hasn’t it?’
‘Time is still imperative. We need to catch this man before he does it again.’ And when we do catch him, I might consider leaving him alone with Tash, Stevie thought. Or I might even give Tash a hand.
The phone in Stella’s kitchen rang. Monty pointed to it and Stella indicated for him to answer it.
‘Stella’s phone,’ he said and listened. ‘Just a minute.’ He covered up the mouthpiece and called out to Stella, ‘A bloke here wants to speak to you. Won’t give his name.’
Stella shrank towards the back of the couch as if she’d just glimpsed a poisonous snake and shook her head.
‘It’s all right, Stella, you don’t have to speak to anyone. A lot of people take their phones off the hook at a time like this.’ Stevie put her hand over Stella’s, which trembled like a wild mouse under her touch. ‘Who do you think it was?’ she gently enquired.
Stella took a breath and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Probably Bob, some guy who’s been asking me out, that’s all. He often rings at this time.’
It wasn’t what she said so much as how she said it. Stevie paused as she puzzled over the reason for Bob’s brush off. ‘You don’t seem to like him much.’
‘Hey, got that right in one.’
Monty unplugged the phone from the wall, then he put a tray on the coffee table before them. ‘Did you have a visitor before we came around? We passed a man on the stairs, he seemed angry,’ he said.
‘No, I’ve been here on my own. He was probably from upstairs.’ She pointed to the floor above with her good hand. ‘The woman up there has a different fella every night.’
‘How did you break your arm, Stella?’ Stevie asked, still thinking about Bob.
‘I was carrying a basket of laundry downstairs and missed my footing. It’s getting better, plaster’s coming off soon.’ She flexed the fingers of her left hand, moving the arm in the sling to show how much it had improved.
‘Is there anyone we can call to sit with you?’ Monty asked. Stella shook her head.
‘Are you sure? It’s not good for you to be on your own at a time like this.’ He handed them each a chipped blue mug, ladling a generous amount of sugar into Stella’s without asking if she wanted it. As gently as he could he told her that someone would pick her up in the morning to formally identify the body.
‘Where was she found?’ Stella turned red-rimmed eyes to Stevie.
‘In a half-built shopping centre in Midland.’
‘She’s never been to Midland. I don’t even like the place, never took her there. How was she, was she...?’
‘She died quickly, but I’m afraid there is evidence of sexual assault,’ Stevie said.
Stella covered her ears with her hands. ‘That’s enough, please, I don’t want to hear any more.’
Discarding her earlier caution, Stevie put an arm around the woman. ‘And we won’t tell you any more, not if you don’t want to hear it.’
Stella ignored the gesture of comfort, reached for her tea and took a shaky sip. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want, just as long as you don’t tell me anything more about how she died.’ She put her mug down and buried her face in Stevie’s shoulder.
Stevie remained with Stella long after Monty left to relieve his neighbour of babysitting duties, promising to stay until the distraught woman was asleep. She contacted the medical officer who dropped by with some sedatives, then called Stella’s sister in Esperance who said she’d arrive in Perth about lunchtime the next day. In between talking to Stella and making phone calls, Stevie briefed the team of uniformed officers assigned to question the neighbours.
Stella had taken the sleeping tablets and was now having a shower before going to bed.
Clothes scattered the floor of Bianca’s bedroom and the residual tang of salt and vinegar chips salted the air. The top of the Formica desk was scarred with slash marks and pitted with tiny holes as if from multiple compass stabbings. ‘I ♥ Daniel’— a boyfriend, a rock or movie star?—had been scratched into the surface.