Six Minutes Page 15

  ‘Who owns that white car?’ Suze asked. ‘That’s what I want to know. Maybe it’s Mrs Parker’s lover,’ she mused, ‘and they’re running away with Bella.’

  ‘We’re mapping the whereabouts of both parents for the past week; I’ve got some of it already,’ Caruso said. ‘Smithy, see if you can pick up anything on their plates—where has Mrs Parker been driving? Hassan, get a list of Dr Parker’s hours from the hospital and ask about Bella’s broken wrist and Mrs Parker’s cheek. Find out if both parents went in to Emergency.’

  Caruso watched the team hurry off in different directions and clicked his tongue against his teeth. When he’d heard the job come through on the radio yesterday, he’d assumed that the girl had wandered off and the first responders would find her in fifteen minutes. Yesterday and last night, the SAR team had continued checking secluded spots where a child might hide or lie injured. They’d found nothing.

  The probability that Bella had been abducted was now high.

  No custody dispute, no Family Court orders, no child protection reports. None of the stuff they usually saw in parental abduction cases. The story about Bella’s broken wrist seemed suspicious, mainly because of the way Mrs Parker had related it. The details were vague but perhaps that was the shock of the accident. Their gardener, Deirdre Bekker, said she’d been working in the backyard that day and Dr Parker had come home for lunch unexpectedly. The doctor said he’d arrived home minutes after Bella had fallen from the tree. In all of the interviews, not one person had reported seeing Dr Parker being violent in any way. Was he just very good at hiding it: the perfect doctor at the hospital but an aggressive bastard at home behind closed doors? Or did Mrs Parker have something to do with her daughter’s injuries?

  Caruso wanted it to be Bella and her mother on the CCTV tape. He’d like to know that Bella had spent last night inside, safe and warm, rather than out in the cold. Or somewhere worse. They had run checks on the known paedophiles in Merrigang and southern Canberra and officers had been out to see them. But perhaps the guy wasn’t local. Maybe he was a tradie working in one of the new suburbs at Molonglo and he’d driven over to Merrigang shops for morning tea. On his way back, he’d happened to see a small girl wandering alone and offered her a lift home. So many homes were being built in Molonglo—hundreds of tiny Lego houses plonked on top of the old paddocks; hundreds of tradesmen coming and going every morning. He’d send Smithy over to the building sites to show Bella’s picture around.

  Canberra was an unusual city for policing: fifteen minutes in any direction and an offender could be in dense bushland. Plenty of places to hide. Merrigang was almost surrounded by bush. And the village wasn’t really on the way to anywhere. People would only drive through to get to outlying farms or the Cotter River recreation area. Further out, there were some settlements, clusters of five or six houses, where bikies and crims were known to hang out. If we’re looking for an opportunistic paedophile, then that guy got lucky. In Merrigang, neighbours knew each other. Close to the playgroup were the school, the shops and a small nursing home, for God’s sake. All the oldies ever did was look out the window. Gwen and Hassan had spent an hour interviewing the residents; they’d seen nothing but wanted to chat.

  Caruso had security footage of the customers shopping at the supermarket, bakery and chemist that morning. A list of patients who had visited the doctor’s surgery. A list of volunteers working at the charity shop. A list of staff at the school, and a copy of the visitors’ registration book showing maintenance people and parents helping out on the school grounds.

  Merrigang was a small community that had rallied together after the bushfires; the village needed to rally again now.

  Meanwhile, the crazies had been ringing in to the comms centre and to Crime Stoppers. Some sick fucks stayed on the line telling long, mad stories for attention. In other cases offenders had called in with false information to throw police off the trail—the ones who thought they were too clever and would never be caught. The mass of details, most of which was irrelevant, was carefully assessed by the Intel team. And sometimes, amid it all, they might find a gem.

  The rest of the team would follow up on the CCTV lead and Bella’s hospital visit while Caruso interviewed a schoolteacher. The guy lived close to the playgroup so Caruso planned to meet him there, on his home ground. He’d been found with photos of Bella in his home.

  As Caruso was driving to the teacher’s house, he had a call from Chatswood police station, near where the Parkers had lived in Sydney. He’d rung them yesterday but the Parkers hadn’t been listed on the station’s system.

  ‘We’re sorry it didn’t come through earlier,’ Sergeant Macintosh explained over the phone now. ‘I’ll send through the report straight away. The thing is, the Parkers changed their surname.’

  23

  MARTY

  MARTY WAS ON THE RIDGE FOR MOST OF THE DAY. HE TRACED THE ROUTE they usually took on Sundays, following it from their house all the way to the hill. The SES men were searching back over the ridge and down towards the paddocks and the dam on the other side. Joining them, Marty called out his daughter’s name into the quiet bushland.

  ‘Bella, where are you? Bella. BELLA.’

  The men nearest him flinched but he kept yelling. Finally, one of them put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t call out so often. We need to listen as well.’

  The first time they found a young roo ripped apart, Marty bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming. Despite the tail, he’d imagined that the blood and the organs were human. They’d come across another heap of entrails and fur in a small gully, and yet another hidden between rocks. Marty overheard two of the SES guys chatting.

  ‘Is it foxes or are there some feral dogs around here?’

  ‘Do foxes attack like that?’

  ‘I dunno, but there’s been no rain and a cull on the kangaroos. The foxes and the feral dogs will be starving.’

  Feral dogs: his tiny daughter wouldn’t stand a chance against them. When he was growing up in Armidale, the local farmers had waged a war against packs of wild dogs that destroyed their livestock. Lambing season was the worst—lambs taken from their mothers in the night, often before the farmer even knew they’d been born.

  Was Bella likely to be up here in the bush? Probably not, but Marty had to do something, feel useful. Down on the streets around playgroup, Marty’s thoughts had fixated on paedophiles and murderers. But up here, wild dogs and guns came to mind. What if a hunter had mistaken Bella for a roo and taken the shot?

  Keeping his eyes on the rocks and the ditches, Marty pushed away visions of wild dogs and focused on the men walking next to him. He’d forgotten that some of these guys were from the Rural Fire Service. They’d been heroes in the big Canberra bushfire—five hundred homes lost and four tragic deaths. One of the radiographers had told him how the electricity had gone down in the hospital, and they’d had to use back-up generators while trying to manage a mass emergency. People suffering burns and smoke inhalation. Firefighters dragging themselves in after hours in the field, black and grimy and coughing, but determined to get back out there. Heroes determined to battle on.

  No heroics from Marty in front of the TV cameras this morning. He and Lexie had planned what to say, then, when the moment arrived, the horror of last time had come flooding back. I should have been able to speak, for Christ’s sake; I work in high-pressure situations every day.

  When the SES men stopped to rest for a moment, Marty pulled out his phone. Fifteen voice messages. His despair made him want to delete them all without listening, but after years of working at a hospital he couldn’t do it. He pressed the buttons and brought the mobile slowly to his ear.

  Three messages from colleagues sending their support. An update from a nurse on his patients who’d had surgery. Messages from friends in Sydney, his cousins in Newcastle and his aunt in Armidale. The next one was from Phyllis, an old family friend. He’d visited her in the nursing home wh
en he had been back to Armidale but had lost touch with her son, Terry.

  Marty, dear, it’s Phyllis. Your aunt rang me and the nursing staff showed me the television news. I’m heartbroken to hear about your little girl. Just heartbroken, dear. I think you must be cursed. Your mother will be watching from heaven. I still hear her words sometimes. Remember when you and Terry built that cubbyhouse in the creek? You should go back there and make another one.

  The message ended abruptly. Cursed. The woman must be slipping into dementia. The last time he’d seen her, she had been dealing out games of bridge in the nursing home. Cursed. Marty rubbed at the pain in his chest. That cubbyhouse she remembered was one of their better ones. He wanted to build a cubbyhouse with Bella.

  Up here on the ridge, Marty could see miles and miles of gum trees, gullies and rocky outcrops; impenetrable countryside leading across to the Brindabella Ranges. Above, blue sky dotted with wisps of clouds. A postcard image. If his child wasn’t missing, possibly out there.

  He pressed the button on his phone to hear the next message.

  Dad, it’s Victoria. Oh my God, I can’t believe that Bella is still missing. I want to come down and help look for her. I’m so scared, Dad. I know you’re busy but please call me.

  Her voice was unrecognisable from the teenager of three weeks ago.

  The Monday after Father’s Day, Marty had been at work for precisely half an hour when his ex-wife had called. They’d spoken briefly the night before to confirm that Victoria had arrived home safely in Sydney.

  This morning Angela hadn’t bothered to say ‘hello’, she just launched straight into it.

  ‘Did you know that Victoria took ecstasy on Saturday night? Kimmy’s parents called me this morning. They saw some messages between the girls talking about how fabulous it was.’

  Even though he and Angela had been divorced for thirteen years—longer than they’d been married—he recognised that tone of voice. Cold and controlled, far beyond the point of being angry.

  ‘Her parents are furious. Me too. I can’t trust you to look after her for one weekend.’

  How come I don’t get to be furious? I just have to try to mop up the mess my daughter has made.

  ‘Have you spoken to Victoria about it?’ Marty asked. ‘Does she say it’s true?’

  Angela ignored his questions and barrelled on.

  ‘What sort of state were they in on Saturday night? Did you realise they’d taken drugs?’

  ‘They seemed—’ he took a deep breath ‘—fine’.

  At four years old, Victoria had looked up to him with adoring eyes, relying on him to magic up a meal in his empty bachelor pad. At eight, he’d taken her camping at Kanangra Walls, shown her the wonders of canyons and waterfalls. Out in the bush, Tory had shared stories about her school friends and her dreams for the future. Even at eleven, she had hugged him with abandon and, together, they had delighted in the sights of Paris between his conference meetings. Could he get that closeness back by keeping her secret?

  ‘Fine?’ Angela shouted the word back at him. ‘Don’t lie to me, Martin. You’re a doctor—you must have seen the effects of it. What time did you pick them up? How long does it stay in the system?’

  Victoria hadn’t filled him in on what story she’d told her mother. Did Angela know the teenagers were at a party in a distant Canberra suburb?

  His pager buzzed, and a nurse signalled outside the glass door.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Angela.’

  ‘You always have to go, Martin. I’ll ring you at lunchtime and I want the truth. What exactly happened? Where were they, anyway? And who with? Apparently, the messages talked about an older guy.’

  Marty had said goodbye, without telling her that he’d be busy at lunch. Monday lunchtime meant Elissa; he could unburden himself and seek her advice. Marty hadn’t mentioned the ecstasy to Lexie on Saturday night, she had enough of her own worries. A drug-taking teenage stepdaughter would send her into a spin. Like him, Lexie was anti-drugs, apart from the prescription ones and those that came in bottles from the liquor store.

  Throughout the morning, Marty checked his watch, a countdown to midday, determined not to be stuck in the middle of a consult. And then, finally, it was time. He was striding down the corridor to the cafeteria and Elissa was there, smiling, waiting for him.

  ‘So, what’s the special today?’ Marty grinned as he sat down, touching her arm lightly.

  ‘Oooh, the special today is … drumroll, please … crusty meatloaf and overcooked vegetables!’

  Elissa threw her head back and laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. He stared at the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts underneath her blouse. Christ, she was attractive. Last week over lunch, they’d been interrupted twice by male specialists. One of them had asked Elissa out for a drink. But it wasn’t just that. Whenever she was on the ward, she made it a happier place for the patients—even the sickest kids responded to her. The nursing staff said Elissa was the best volunteer they’d ever had. ‘You’re never allowed to leave us,’ they told her at the end of each Monday.

  ‘One day, I’ll take you to lunch outside the hospital,’ he dared to say. ‘After all your hard work, you deserve something more than meatloaf.’

  ‘But not today, sadly.’ She shook her dark locks. ‘Guess what? I’m refusing today’s special! I’m having chicken pasta instead.’

  He couldn’t work out if Elissa found him attractive. Did he still have it, even though he was at least fifteen years older than her? Ironically, he was fitter than he’d ever been. Twice, recently, he’d caught himself fantasising about her. A horny teenager desperate for her touch.

  Gratitude, that was what it was. She had helped him settle into the hospital, into Canberra. Helped him manage his uncertainty. The first month at the hospital, he’d floundered. And then Elissa had shimmered into the ward, a beam of sunshine.

  Over chicken pasta, he told her about the weekend with Victoria and Angela’s phone call that morning.

  ‘Your ex-wife shouldn’t be cross at you,’ Elissa reassured him. ‘You can’t keep teenagers locked up in a room. They have to take responsibility for their own actions.’

  And this was why Mondays were the highlight of his week. He could say anything to Elissa and she understood.

  ‘I was a terrible teenager.’ She winked at him across the table. ‘My, oh my, the things I got up to, you wouldn’t believe!’

  ‘I wish I’d known you then.’

  Early on, he’d wanted to introduce the effervescent Elissa to his wife, sure they’d become friends. Elissa had a four-year-old, and she was full of tips about kids’ activities in Canberra. But the women had never met, and now Marty had stopped mentioning Elissa’s name—though he still passed on information from her, lightly disguising the source.

  ‘A nurse told me about this gymnastics place. Great classes for kids.’

  ‘Apparently the library has a dress-up day on Tuesday. Do you think Bella would like that?’

  Lexie had enrolled Bella in gymnastics and occasionally took her to the library. It was Elissa who had suggested a playgroup, which had become Lexie’s lifeline. And somehow Elissa herself had become Marty’s lifeline.

  Sometimes, over lunch and later, as he recalled a flick of her hair and that seductive smile, a twinge of guilt flared. But Elissa was only a friend. A friend. Nothing disloyal about that. He needed someone to talk with, to laugh with, that was all.

  ‘So, are you going out for a drink with that specialist?’ Marty asked.

  He knew Elissa was single but she rarely talked about men.

  ‘None of your business, Dr Parker,’ she retorted. ‘Why? Are you jealous?’

  Marty felt his face flush to the very roots of his hair. Christ, he was so transparent.

  ‘Ah, do you know a good plumber?’ Marty quickly changed to a safer topic. ‘That gardener you recommended has been great.’

  ‘A plumber?’ Elissa raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, I can give you a number. And no,
I didn’t have a drink with him.’ She giggled. ‘The plumber, I mean. I’m still deciding about the specialist.’

  She had found a pen in her handbag and copied a number from her mobile phone onto a napkin. Marty wished she’d just text it to him—then he’d have her number too.

  ‘Thanks.’ Marty took the napkin and folded it into his pocket. ‘Gotta dash. See you on the ward.’

  ‘Sure.’ That smile again. ‘When I was there this morning, Owen in bed four was crying a lot. You might want to check on him.’

  As he left, Marty avoided touching her arm, avoided looking at her body. Dangerous territory.

  The SES blokes finished their search at four thirty. Marty remained on the ridge alone, calling out Bella’s name as the oranges and pinks of dusk began to colour the sky. He’d rung Lexie throughout the day but stayed away from the playgroup, away from the detectives. In one insane moment, he’d imagined dropping into the hospital to see Elissa. It was her face, her smile, her reassurance that he wanted. But she wouldn’t be there—today was Friday. Marty had no phone number for her, no idea where she lived. He’d been careful not to ask. He would not make the same mistake that he’d made in his first marriage. Lexie didn’t deserve that. But right now, amid the pain, he knew Elissa was the one who could bring him comfort.

  His mobile rang and Marty snatched it from his pocket.

  ‘Lexie?’

  ‘Actually, it’s Imogen on Lexie’s phone. Um, she was wondering if you could come back. The police have an update and they’re planning the night search.’

  ‘I’m still up the ridge,’ Marty explained, hoping she’d pass the information on to his wife. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so. What’s the update?’

  The line was silent and Marty heard the buzz of nocturnal creatures starting up around him. The worst-case scenario couldn’t have happened—if they were planning a night search, that meant Bella hadn’t been found.