Expectant, page 8
BloodBroz.
Blood brothers.
Cute. I knew they weren’t literally brothers, but I wondered if they were related in some way? Cousins? Was the blood literal, or figurative, expressive of a common bond?
I frowned. Something in my consciousness told me this was important. I’d learned over the years to trust my radar.
A common bond?
In the time I had been playing desk jockey, searching for anything in common between the region’s few related incidents of baby snatching and … well, however you’d describe the current events, I hadn’t looked into familial relationships. Were victim and perpetrator related in any way? Blood brothers. Blood sisters in this case. And why would that matter?
I did one last scan of the courtyard, then turned around and gladly started to ascend the tunnel. Coming down here may have stirred up some emotion that was a bit too close to home, but it felt like the scene had been trying to tell me something, and I now had another angle to look into. Who knew if it would lead anywhere, but it least it felt like I was doing something.
Coming here had been more confronting than I had thought. It was hard to fathom the indescribable horror that Aleisha Newman went through that night. My hands reached underneath my own, gravid belly, and I prayed she was unconscious in the moment she was cut open. I fervently hoped that her baby was out there somewhere, safe and sound, and I thanked God that in those final moments she hadn’t been alone. That someone had cared enough to stay.
CHAPTER 20
‘Hand over the garlic bread, and no one will get hurt.’
Both Maggie and Paul slowly raised their hands, being careful to make no sudden movements, and I slid the long wooden board holding the last remaining pieces towards me. Mealtimes had descended to a competition for the crust ends.
I enjoyed watching the interaction between Maggie and Paul as they continued the banter by trying to claim the last of the salad and lasagne. It was enjoyment tinged with a wistfulness, because with the arrival of Bubs life was going to change dramatically for this extended family unit of three. It would become a different unit of three. Maggie was due to make the big shift out next week to embark on her own new adventures in cohabitationland with Rudy, her long-time beau. He was returning from an extended archaeological stint digging up Roman ruins in his homeland of France, to more permanent digs here. I was thrilled for them both as they were one of the coolest couples I knew, but it still felt like a wrench and their coolness didn’t make accepting the change any easier. It would be the end of an era. Maggie and I had been through a lot together, to put it mildly.
After they’d settled on the distribution of the food, Paul resumed the conversation we’d been having about the case. One of the pitfalls of a two-detective family was that work never stayed at work, and shop talk was inevitable. Maggie was well used to this and understood the cone of silence and privilege. What was discussed at the dinner table, or the sofas with a cup of tea, stayed at the dinner table, or on the sofas, even after the cup of tea was drunk. We welcomed her discretion – and her opinions, as she often provided a different and useful perspective to that of two investigators too absorbed in the case.
‘So the big question, really, is what was she doing down that particular alleyway in the first place?’ I said. ‘Most women have enough common sense and instinct for self-preservation not to be alone late at night in an isolated spot.’
‘Ummm, you’ve been guilty of that on a number of occasions, as I recall.’
‘What he said,’ Maggie chipped in.
I made a token defence. ‘Yeah, but that’s different. I was on the job, and I’m police.’
‘And you really think that made it any safer?’ Paul had done that one eyebrow going up thing, which was annoying. I’d tried practising it in the mirror and all that happened was they both raised and I looked surprised rather than bemused.
‘Ahhh, point taken.’
‘Anyway, we know the alleyway was familiar territory for her.’
‘How so?’ Maggie asked.
‘She’d worked at Etrusco before heading off on maternity leave and had access to a parking space down there.’
‘Ahhh, Etrusco, one of my favourite eateries.’
‘Maggie, everywhere is your favourite eatery,’ Paul quipped. He wasn’t wrong.
‘So why was she there late at night when she wasn’t even working anymore?’ Maggie asked.
‘That is the million-dollar question,’ Paul said, finger beating in time with each word. ‘Her husband didn’t know why. She’d been out at her, as he put it, “boozy book group” that evening. They’d put on a special supper in her honour as a pre-baby last hurrah. She’d left around nine-thirtyish, but for whatever reason she hadn’t gone straight home.’
‘And she had no reason to pop into her old workplace on the way?’ Maggie asked.
‘No. He said she had gone back in to work a couple of times recently, but both times earlier in the day when the place was open. He’d thought it was to get a few last things in order and for some final handover tasks, but other than that he was baffled as to why she was there.’
‘So she hadn’t mentioned meeting up with anyone?’
‘Not that he could remember. He’d started to get concerned when she wasn’t home by ten. Had texted her but had no reply.’
By then she was possibly in no position to be able to reply. My shoulders gave their customary shudder. Maggie noticed and gave my leg a little pat.
‘So let’s throw in some left-field reasons why she was there,’ Maggie said. ‘Perhaps she wanted to stop at the mini-mart on the corner to get milk on the way home and had used the carpark.’
‘At that hour you’d just park outside the shop,’ Paul said.
‘There was a concert on at the town hall, remember,’ I said, ‘there weren’t any spaces on the street.’
‘True. Might not be such a dumb suggestion.’
‘She decided to gate crash the last of the concert,’ said Maggie.
‘That one is a dumb suggestion,’ said Paul.
‘Well, you were asking for left field.’
‘Yeah, but not on the other side of the county.’
‘The Indigo Room had a private function on that night. Perhaps it was something to do with that? Giving someone a ride home?’ I said.
‘Yeah, but if that was the case she would probably have mentioned it to her husband, or the people at the book group,’ Paul said.
‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m sure Sam doesn’t mention every last little thing she is up to to you,’ Maggie said.
‘Good point, and I’m grateful, because I’m sure there are plenty of things it would be better not to know.’
‘You’re right there. I know this is not pleasant to ask,’ I said. ‘But was there any suggestion that she had been having an affair? Could she have been meeting someone else? Another man?’
‘Or woman?’
‘Ooof, that’s not the sort of question you could ask her grieving husband at this exact moment in time,’ Maggie said.
‘Yeah, that would be a little insensitive, even for you, Sam, but I am sure you wouldn’t be the first person on the team to wonder.’ Paul reached over and grabbed the repurposed gin bottle to top up his water glass. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Otto’s the one going through her phone calls and text messages, isn’t he?’ I asked.
‘That would be correct,’ Paul said. I tapped the side of my glass in a little yes please gesture and he obliged.
‘Might have to have a chat with him tomorrow and see what has come to light.’
‘If there was anything illuminating, I’m sure he would have already let us all know.’ Paul looked chuffed with his own joke.
‘Yeah, from what I’ve heard he’s pretty switched on.’ Maggie looked pretty smug too.
‘Well, he’s a bright cookie.’
‘You could say his work was enlightening.’
I groaned.
The puns were painful, but man, I was going to miss this.
CHAPTER 21
Sleep was starting to become a bit of a luxury. Trying to get comfortable when your hips felt like they were trying to split in two wasn’t fun, and trying to turn over in bed involved a heave and a twist that would have made an Olympic gymnast proud. The thud from my landing felt like it could have registered on the Richter scale, but, incredibly, it never seemed to wake Paul. That man could sleep through anything. Bastard. I suppose in a way it was nature’s cunning plan to get me used to sleep deprivation before Bubs arrived.
The downside of all this was I was a bundle of yawns and coffee cravings by the time I got to work. It also meant that poor Otto must have been doubting how scintillating his conversation was when he kept being presented with a view of my tonsils.
Fortunately for me he was taking it with his usual good humour and would pause until I’d done with trying to crack my jaw.
‘Do you want me to go make you a coffee?’ he asked.
‘Thanks, but no, I’ll go out and get a proper one later.’
‘What’s wrong with the stuff in the kitchen?’
‘Besides the fact the tin always seems to be empty on the odd occasion I’ve been desperate enough to attempt it? And have you seen how much sugar Smithy has to put into it to make it drinkable?’
‘Fair point.’
I turned my attention back to the task at hand, which was asking about the contents of Aleisha Newman’s cell phone.
‘So there was nothing in her text messages that raised red flags for you?’
‘No. Just the usual chit-chat with family and friends, the occasional automated reminder text, and promotional things from stores.’
God, I hated those. No matter how important the shoe shop thought it was, I didn’t need to know they were having a sale right now. It always felt so intrusive.
‘No arrangements with anyone to meet on the Monday night?’
‘No, nothing in her texts or her email. Her calendar only shows the book group meeting we already know about, nothing else.’
‘Well, it’s disappointing that she hadn’t put the meeting with her murderer in her diary.’
‘Shame,’ Otto said, in that way only the South African accent could manage.
‘Shame indeed. Would have simplified matters greatly.’
If you were going to arrange to meet someone with ill intent in mind, texts and email were a bit too easy for the authorities to follow up on. A clear paper trail – in a digital kind of a way. Phone calls, on the other hand, were easier to disguise. Sure, they could be traced back to a number, but other than the two people involved, no one would know what they had been talking about, unless one of them had been recording it, which wasn’t standard for most of us.
‘Nothing odd on her recent contacts list?’
‘Depends what you class as odd.’
‘Oh?’ My curiosity piqued. ‘There was something there?’
‘Yeah, nah, just messing with your head.’
My laugh morphed into a yawn. Otto had a subtle way of trolling you.
‘Am I asking too many questions?’ I asked.
‘Well, it feels a bit like an interrogation. You sure you don’t want to take over my job?’ It was offered with just a hint of sarcasm, but I knew, with Otto, the sarcasm was tinged with good humour. He was one of the few men around here who I always knew where I stood with. I could be straight up with him without worrying about offending a fragile ego.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m just feeling a bit side-lined, and you know what I’m like, I always have to know what’s going on.’
‘It’s one of your charms,’ he said. ‘How about I save myself the agony and send you a list of the texts and calls.’
‘Thank you.’ I thought a moment about other ways of getting in touch. ‘Did they have a landline?’ Not everyone had one nowadays. We’d got rid of ours because the only people ringing it were the scammers. We no longer felt like paying for the privilege of having someone trying to part us with our money.
‘Yes, and I’ll send you that too.’
‘Twitter, Messenger and WhatsApp?’
‘Now you’re pushing it.’
CHAPTER 22
The slight flicker from the fluorescent tubes added an otherworldliness to the already tense scenario playing out before me. The woman on the right seemed folded in on herself like some form of human origami. Opposite her DI Johns glowered, fists balled, plonked on the table in front of him. Seated next to him was Detective Malcolm Smith, arms folded across his chest. Whoever thought that it was appropriate to have two high-powered and physically imposing men interviewing this poor woman needed to be shot, or at least marched off to undertake some cultural and social-responsiveness training. The power imbalance was ridiculous and was manifest by the woman’s cowering body language. I could not understand for the life of me why they didn’t have Sonia Richardson in there instead. Well, actually, I did, and unfortunately it had nothing to do with her abilities, and more to do with the fact she didn’t possess a rod and tackle. I could feel the woman’s discomfort through the screen as I watched the recording of the interview from the relative discomfort of my desk in the CIB office. Why hadn’t she had an advocate of some kind with her? Because at that point she hadn’t been under arrest.
I leaned in closer to the computer to hear better, but then laughed – I was wearing headphones. A couple of taps on the keyboard fixed the issue.
Lena Cameron had been invited in for a ‘conversation’ after an anonymous call to the public help line. According to the tip-off there had been a new arrival in the house in recent days, and the caller had their suspicions. The reason Lena had attracted so much attention was because, unfortunately for her, she was a name we were familiar with. My earlier research into previous baby-snatching had flagged the case of a twenty-two-year-old woman who had been found guilty of brazenly walking into the maternity unit at Timaru and walking out with five-hour-old Imogen Wells, lifted out of her cot while her mother slept, exhausted after the rigours of giving birth. The baby had been quickly tracked down, and was completely unharmed, but the family was already traumatised. Needless to say, Timaru Hospital had drastically increased their security since the incident. Three years later Lena was looking a little the worse for wear but was still recognisable as the young woman who had stood in the dock, charged with kidnapping, and been made to undergo psychiatric assessment.
‘Where did you get the baby from, Lena?’
‘Isobella is my baby. She’s mine.’
‘We’ve looked into the hospital records, and there’s no record of you having given birth. Yet here you are, with a baby, and we all know that’s happened before.’ The Boss’s tone was accusatory to say the least. ‘Did you try it again, Lena? Did it become too much and you had to take another baby?’
‘No, that was a long time ago, and I was very sick at the time. I was sick in the head, I know that. It was an awful thing to do, and I understand what I put her family through, but I’m better now and I would never do that to anyone ever again. Isobella is my daughter. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘Then how do you explain the fact that there’s no record of her birth?’
‘I had her at home. I didn’t even go to the hospital. She was a home birth. You can ask—’
‘Is that so?’
He didn’t even give her a chance to finish her sentence, and the way he said it, with such enmity, made me wonder if he just plain hated women. Actually, I was pretty confident of the answer to that thought.
‘And who can verify that you gave birth at home? Was your husband there? Family?’
In the absence of any such witnesses, I was pretty damn sure any doctor worth their salt could verify if a woman had just given birth. But clearly in Dick Head Johns’ rush to get her down to the station and try and nail a quick result, a basic consultation with the police doctor hadn’t happened. He was out to appease the public and the media. At the expense of the woman in front of him. It would appear that The Boss had not even entertained the idea that she might be telling the truth. I wished Smithy would take the initiative and steer the questions in a more considered and less confrontational direction, but he just sat there expressionless, like an oversized baked potato.
‘I don’t have a husband,’ she whispered.
‘Then where is your supposed child’s father?’ Again the spat-out question was weighted with accusation.
‘Isobella’s father isn’t here right now.’ Her eyes were downcast and she picked at the side of her thumbnail.
‘Well, that’s convenient, don’t you think? And where would he be, then?’
I didn’t think it was possible for someone to shrink into themselves more.
‘I don’t know.’ Barely audible.
‘What do you mean you don’t know? Has he stepped out to the pub, off with his friends to celebrate?’
‘I haven’t seen him for months. He skipped out when he found out I was pregnant. He buggered off, refused to believe the baby was his, didn’t want it.’
Oh, that poor woman. I couldn’t even imagine how it would feel to be in that position, feel that vulnerable, that rejected.
There was slightly too long a silence, which verged into the awkward.
‘And was it his?’
Jesus, I couldn’t believe he actually asked that question. Insensitive bastard. I started to seriously consider going down to his office and offering a little advice on how to conduct an interview with a vulnerable person – make him think twice before opening his mouth with that kind of bullshit in the future. To hell with the consequences.
‘Of course she’s his. He was the only man I’d been with in years. And he left me.’ The tears were rolling down her face now. Smithy finally did something other than sit like a spud and passed her a box of tissues.
