Under the Midnight Sky Read online

  ‘The usual dramas,’ Duncan said, swiping a wind-blown lock of sandy hair out of his eyes. ‘A guy smashed his knuckles when he punched a friend’s car. A middle-aged woman skewered her thumb with a sewing machine needle. Aside from that it’s been a quiet week. No head wounds. No teenage girls admitted.’

  My shoulders slumped. ‘Pretty strange, don’t you think?’

  Duncan gave me a sideways look. ‘Maybe she wasn’t as badly hurt as you thought?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So who’s this dude you’ve shacked up with? Anyone I know?’

  I jabbed my elbow into his ribs. ‘I haven’t shacked up with him. I went out to interview him for the Express and got stranded in the storm. He had a spare room. End of story.’

  ‘Stranded, eh? For three days?’

  ‘The bridge only cleared this morning. It’s been under water since Monday. Drive out and see for yourself, if you’re so concerned. The road is a mud bog, and the bridge is smothered in creek weed. That should convince you. Anyway, I’m helping Tom with a couple of things. In exchange for the interview.’

  Duncan snorted. ‘Things?’

  ‘He’s on crutches and can’t get around too well. I’ve been unpacking his books and making him lunch—’

  ‘Lunch! You’re not trying to poison the poor guy, are you?’

  ‘Ha ha, you bloody comedian.’

  ‘Keen on him, are you?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Really, Dunc. You might go around shagging anything with a pulse, but I’m more discerning than that. Tom’s nice enough, in a rugged He-Man sort of way, but to be perfectly honest he’s not my type.’

  Duncan made a guttural sound. ‘Yeah, you’re keen.’

  ‘I’m there for the interview. Nothing more.’

  ‘So what is he, some bigwig?’

  ‘Yeah, a writer. He’s the real deal, too. His books made into films, that sort of thing. He’s really reclusive, a bit of a hermit, you know, so I’m really chuffed about getting the interview.’ I winced. That last bit had come out too loudly. I snuck a look at my brother, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  Duncan’s brows were up near his hairline. ‘That sounded totally fake. Are you going to tell me why you’re really there?’

  I sighed, wilting into my cardigan. ‘Kendra said that if I pulled off the interview with Tom, then she’d let me write a front-page feature.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘The gorge murders.’

  ‘Jeez, Abby.’ He shook his head, picking up pace. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  I ran to catch up, skipping across the shingles so I wouldn’t fall behind. My legs were long, but Duncan was a beanstalk. ‘I want to tell the truth, Dunc. People need to know what really happened.’

  ‘They already know what happened.’

  Water spray misted across the surface of the lake, kissing my face with its icy breath. I shivered, stomping from foot to foot. Duncan was younger than me by three years, but he’d always been the protective one – protective of me, of Dad.

  After our mother left, eight-year-old Duncan discovered his maternal streak; while Dad and I floundered hopelessly around in our misery, my brother started cooking breakfast for us, and then packing our lunches. He even started cutting recipes from old Women’s Weekly magazines that Mum had left behind. As his confidence grew in the kitchen, he branched out to other duties – laundry, making the beds, even ironing Dad’s work shirts. Now, as he loped along beside me, I caught a glimpse of the little mother hen who had tried so hard to keep our father and me fed and loved.

  Reaching out, I gave his bony shoulder a gentle pat. ‘I know you worry about me, baby bro. But I’m okay.’

  ‘You’re not, though, are you? What’s this really about?’

  I dragged in a breath. ‘Remember when I gave evidence at Jasper’s trial?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘Do you ever think I might’ve got it wrong?’

  ‘Got it wrong how?’

  ‘That I made a mistake. That it wasn’t Jasper who attacked me in the forest that day. I remember running away from him, and I’m pretty sure I fell. But after that . . . it’s a blur.’ I leaned nearer, almost afraid to say the words. ‘Dunc, do you ever think that because of me they convicted the wrong guy?’

  ‘Never. I never doubted you. Why would I? You were there, you saw the bastard up close and personal. He tried to— Jeez, Abby, it was twenty years ago, for crying out loud. Why are you questioning yourself now?’

  ‘That girl I found at the campground. I can’t seem to get her out of my head. I mean, one minute she’s lying there out cold, I couldn’t wake her. Then half an hour later she was just . . . gone. And something about her – the dark hair, her slight build. The scratches on her hands and arms. She reminded me of . . . well, me.’ I swallowed. Voicing my fears made them seem overblown and childish, as if I’d shone a torch into the murkiest corner of my nightmares and found nothing but cobwebs. Yet even knowing that my fears were improbable and unlikely didn’t make them any less real to me. ‘Dunc, what if it’s happening again?’

  Duncan grabbed my shoulders. ‘It’s not happening again.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Jasper Horton’s in jail, Abby. It’s over, okay?’

  I pulled away from him and continued walking.

  ‘It’s not over for her,’ I said quietly. ‘The girl at the campground.’ The wind snatched at my words, howling them away into the casuarinas that grew on the shore. We were almost at the carpark, and I was eager to be inside the warm cocoon of my Fiesta. I took out my car keys. ‘It’s not over until I know she got home okay. I mean, why isn’t anyone worried about her?’

  Duncan grabbed his pushbike from where he’d propped it against my bumper bar. He squinted in the wind, his sandy brows creased as he gazed across the lake. ‘This is probably nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know I’m still doing Meals on Wheels?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘One of my oldies was a bit out of sorts last night.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He looked back at me. ‘About her granddaughter. The girl had a bad row with her mum the other week. On her birthday. She was so ticked off that she walked out and went to stay with her estranged father on the coast.’

  I pricked up. ‘And?’

  ‘Old Mrs Pitney was annoyed that the kid hadn’t phoned. At least to let everyone know she’d arrived safe with her dad. The girl’s mother isn’t worried because she has a history of running off. But it’s been a week and no one’s heard from her.’

  • • •

  As I drove along the rutted bitumen road that led out of town, a feeling of desolation settled over me. The streets flanking the western edge of Gundara grew shabbier the further out I went. Not far from here was the local landfill, and one side of the road was littered with scraps of tin and plastic bags and paper puffed along by the wind. On the other side was a row of poky housing commission houses.

  I found a parking spot on the barren side, and headed towards a shabby fibro house in need of a lick of paint. I’d driven past it once or twice before, glaring at the snotty-nosed brats who always seemed to be swinging off the garden gate, throwing stones at cars. Today the yard was empty. Grass grew up around mower carcasses and abandoned toys, and in the driveway an old Torana was succumbing to rust.

  I knocked on the front door. Yelling erupted from the back of the house, and a child screamed. A moment later the scuff of feet approached. The door cracked open and a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes glared out at me.

  ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

  She went to shut the door but I stopped it with my hand. ‘Wait, I’m not selling. I’m here about your daughter.’

  The door jerked open. A thirty-something woman tugged her dressing gown closed over her pregnant belly. Dragging on a cigarette, she blew the smoke in my face. ‘You a teacher?’

  ‘No, but I’m concerned about—’
>
  ‘A cop?’

  I shook my head. ‘Is your daughter here?’

  She glanced over my shoulder into the street. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Shayla hasn’t been here all week. She pissed off again, didn’t she?’

  ‘Any idea where Shayla is now?’

  The woman blushed, an unflattering crimson that spread up into the dark roots of her bleached yellow hair. ‘You’re with DOCS, then, are you? Shit, you shoulda said. Look, I already told you people—’

  ‘I’m not from DOCS. My brother knows Shayla’s grandmother. She’s worried about the girl.’

  ‘Tell the old bat to mind her own bloody business.’

  ‘I’m a little worried myself. I found a girl injured out at the reserve last week. But she scarpered before I could help. I’m trying to rule out that it could have been your daughter. The girl was brunette and slim build, and she was wearing a red jacket. Does that sound like Shayla?’

  The woman swore under her breath and then stepped back inside, slamming the door in my face.

  I waited, hoping she’d gone to retrieve a photo. But the minutes ticked away. I knocked again, but when she didn’t reappear I turned and pushed through the gate onto the street. At least I had a name: Shayla Pitney. As Duncan said, it was probably nothing. Like all country towns, Gundara had its share of families doing it rough. Drugs, grog, poverty. Kids ran away all the time. Hitched or caught trains, then turned up days or weeks later when they’d had enough of sleeping rough or got turfed out by whoever they’d lobbed on, or ran out of cash – whichever came first.

  ‘Hey!’

  I twisted around. The woman was leaning in her doorway, flapping a piece of paper at me. I ran back along the path.

  It wasn’t a photo. It was a note scrawled in green texta. Up yours, Mum. I’ve had enough of your crap. Gone to live with my dad on the coast. Love, Shay.

  ‘ “Love Shay” my arse, can you believe the little bitch?’ The woman shook her head, her mouth downturned. ‘She was always trouble. From the minute I got up the duff with her she gave me grief.’

  I passed back the note. ‘Have you heard from her?’

  The woman pulled an incredulous face. ‘Yeah, right. Not likely to, neither. This isn’t the first fricken time she’s racked off. And I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last.’

  ‘What about her father on the coast, do you have his number?’

  ‘I haven’t seen the prick for ten years, why would I have his number?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a call when Shayla gets back?’

  She scoffed. ‘The only thing I’ll be doing when she gets back is giving her a swift kick up the arse. You know she went through my wallet before she left? Cleaned me out. Ripped off my new jacket, too.’

  ‘Your jacket . . . was it red?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘The girl at the reserve was wearing a red jacket.’

  The brown eyes narrowed. For a moment I thought she was going to drop the uncaring mum act and show some concern, maybe ask me to describe the girl I’d found in more detail, even shed a worried tear. Instead, her eyes turned hard and she tugged the gown forcefully over her breasts.

  ‘Those jackets were on sale at Kmart. Everyone’s got ’em.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. Stay out of my face, you hear? Or I’ll tell the cops you’re stalking me. Now piss off before I do me block.’

  ‘Why aren’t you worried?’

  She screwed up the note and jammed it into her pocket. ‘Because Shayla’s a bloody troublemaker. She does this all the time. The cops are sick to death of dragging her back here, and I’m sick of dealing with all her shit. The little slag is more trouble than she’s worth.’

  Back in the car, I drove aimlessly, first heading out past farmland and then looping back via a different road. For a while I coasted along Gundara’s poorer backstreets, passing the run-down houses and neglected gardens without really seeing them. I kept remembering the woman’s eyes, dark brown fringed with long lashes – so like those of the girl in the campground. It had to be Shayla. But what could I do? Wasn’t it up to the girl’s mother to report her missing? I’d already filed a report with the police after finding the girl last week. But now that I had a possible identity, it seemed wrong not to say anything.

  I drove into the town centre, parked in front of a red-brick bungalow on the main street and went in. From somewhere beyond the reception area drifted the tap of fingers on a keyboard and the quiet murmur of a telephone conversation. At the glassed-in counter, I rang the buzzer.

  Footsteps whispered along the corridor and a police officer emerged, her eyebrows raised expectantly. I explained that last week I had reported finding an injured girl in the abandoned campground at Deepwater Gorge Reserve, and that I now believed the girl to be Shayla Pitney.

  The officer grabbed a notepad. Word must have got around, or she’d seen the ambulance report, because she didn’t seem surprised by my account. She made some notes, then studied me through the bulletproof glass.

  ‘You’re a relative?’

  ‘No, I don’t know her personally.’

  ‘You spoke to her mother, Coral Pitney, is that correct? And Coral said the girl was with her dad?’

  ‘Shayla left a note for her mum, yeah.’

  ‘So what makes you think she’s missing?’

  ‘My brother told me this morning that Shayla’s grandma is worried. No one’s heard from Shayla all week. And Shayla’s mother mentioned a red jacket like the one the injured girl was wearing.’

  The officer checked her notes. ‘You said the girl’s head wound seemed serious. So you called an ambulance, but when they arrived the girl was gone.’ She looked up and her face softened. ‘Kids go out to the reserve sometimes to drink and party. You realise there’s a chance she just recovered and went home to her dad’s.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s what I thought at first. But after talking to her mum, I’m not so sure.’

  The officer rocked back on her heels and frowned. ‘Are you certain it was Shayla you found? Did her mother show you a photo?’

  I went closer to the counter. ‘No, I’m not certain. But I’m reluctant to let it go. I know it sounds lame, but I’ve got a bad feeling.’

  The overhead fluoro flickered, casting the reception area into momentary gloom.

  ‘Look, I can see you’re concerned,’ the officer said kindly. ‘And we take reports of this nature very seriously. But we see this a lot. Kids unhappy at home, running off.’ She sighed and glanced over her shoulder into the corridor, then went on. ‘I know this family, they have a ton of issues. Coral’s got five kids, another on the way. Quite a handful on a limited income. Young Shayla’s run off more times than I care to count. But she always comes home in a week or so when she runs out of money.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘The good news is that, in ninety-eight per cent of cases, the person is found safe and well within a week.’

  ‘What about the other two per cent?’

  She tapped her pen on the notepad. ‘If no one’s heard from her by next weekend, we’ll start making enquiries. But like I said, she’ll most likely turn up safe and sound.’

  Climbing into my Fiesta, still brooding over Coral Pitney’s lack of worry for her daughter, I drove east to another section of town. It was Gundara’s oldest suburb, its wide streets sheltered by leafy evergreens, and the occasional red-gold autumn blaze of an elm or maple. Most of the houses were tiny workers’ cottages built before the turn of the century, but dotted between them were larger places that had been lovingly restored.

  Slowing the car, I idled on the kerb and buzzed down my window.

  The miner’s cottage on the other side of the street looked abandoned. Paint peeled off its pink weatherboards, and the windows were tightly shuttered. Knee-high grass choked the yard, and bundles of newspaper sat in piles on the verandah. On either side, the neighbouring gardens were well tended, the lawns nea
t, with tidy houses tucked behind flowering shrubs. Sandwiched between them, the little pink cottage was a shabby guest at an elegant dinner party. Had it always been so neglected? Or had Roy Horton let it crumble around him only after his son went to prison?

  I imagined Roy inside, moving from room to room, sweating out his memories, his regrets. Maybe even, like me, his guilt. For two decades he had kept insisting to anyone who’d listen that his son was innocent. That Jasper might be a misfit, but he was no killer. Why had Roy been so certain? Did he believe he knew something that the investigation had overlooked? Or was he simply clutching at straws, a father unable to cope with the horrifying truth of his son’s actions?

  The front door opened. A man stepped out, his black trousers hanging low off his hips and a brown cardigan buttoned over a flannelette shirt. He walked along the verandah, puffing a trail of cigarette smoke as he bent over one of the boxes and picked up a newspaper. He turned around to go back inside, but then hesitated and glanced across the road. When he saw me, his back went rigid.

  I tried to raise my hand and wave. That would be the least suspicious thing to do. But my fingers were clenched so tightly around the wheel that I couldn’t move them.

  He was going to march over here, wasn’t he? Demand that I tell him what the hell I thought I was doing, idling at the kerb and staring daggers at his house. But over the years Roy had probably suffered more than his fair share of people who had come to ogle the cottage where the convicted Deepwater killer once lived with his parents, because he merely hunched his shoulders against my scrutiny and plodded back inside.

  9

  Joe gazed around at the chaos. Pincushions and baskets of fabric, Lil’s good sewing scissors gathering dust on the windowsill. The overlocker draped with a tea towel, loose threads escaping their bobbins like a tangle of multi-coloured hairs. How Lil navigated her way through the mess was a constant bewilderment to him. With drama group starting up again, she’d soon be bustling around in here, sewing up a storm of costumes and scrims and goodness knew what else.