Missing Pieces, page 15
Before she could get even to the first message the phone rang. Zak.
‘Cass,’ he said. ‘Stay calm, it’s all right, just that we’ve got Jordon here in ED—’
‘Jordon!’ she cried. ‘What’s happened? Did someone hit him on his bike?’
‘He’s fine, honey!’ said Zak. ‘Some bumps and bruises, but fine. No, he wasn’t on the bike. Two thugs beat him up at uni on his way to the bike stands. Both white. He’s seen them before. He says there was some incident last week. They jumped on him behind the chemistry labs.’
‘Did they knock him out? Has he got broken bones?’
‘No, none of that. He needs a few stitches to his head and arm and some cleaning up. And then I’ll bring him home, but I’ll be a bit late.’
‘Did he call the family?’ Cass asked, puzzled. It didn’t seem like something Jordon would do. He’d want to play it down. ‘Our whole mob seems to have texted me in the last hour!’
‘I don’t know,’ Zak said, equally surprised. ‘I’ll ask him. Somebody called uni security, I know that much, and they called an ambulance, and the police are here right now talking to him. He seems a bit uncomfortable with all the fuss, but I’m sure the uni’s going to take it very seriously. It’s not clear if the guys who did it are students or not.
‘And, honey, he’s really not badly hurt and I’m bringing him home, really soon. I’ll call his work now and tell them he can’t come in tonight. We’ll get some takeaway pizza from them, ourselves.’
‘Okay, see you soon. Love you both!’
She called her mother.
‘Cassie!’ Alice shrieked into the phone. ‘We saw it all on YouTube! We’re all so proud of him!’
‘Whoa!’ said Cass. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve only just heard that Jordon got beaten up by some whitefellas at the uni but Zak says he’s okay. What’s on YouTube?’
‘His two friends! Two girls. One’s called Lisa. They were at the window of wherever it was and they filmed it on Lisa’s phone. The shits holding Jordon down were saying to him, ‘Tell us you’re a cunt and then we’ll let you go,’ and Jordon kept saying, ‘I’m a proud black man,’ while they kicked him. Then he managed to push them off just as security came round the corner.’
‘Christ!’ said Cass. ‘On YouTube! I’ll have a look right now. Can you just kind of let people know that he’s okay, and we’ll get to calling them all later.’
She turned on her computer. It was just as her mother described it. The video had been taken with an iPhone through a closed window on the first floor but it was still very clear. By the time Lisa, if that was her name, had started filming, Jordon was already on the ground, with one big guy right on top of him. Cass flinched as the other guy kicked her son in the head.
‘Say it, say it, you cunt!’ he was shouting.
‘Fuck off!’ Jordon shouted back. ‘I’m a proud black man!’ He struggled to get his head free so he could speak. ‘Black! And proud! Get fucked, both of you!’
There was a further struggle and then two security guards could be seen running fast around the corner of the building. One was quite a small white woman with a buzzcut and multiple earrings, the other a big guy, a Pacific Islander, by the looks. He hauled the top guy off Jordon and the woman let fly with some jabs to the assailant’s arms. Then they helped Jordon up and the woman talked rapidly into her phone. The second guy, the one who’d kicked Jordon, started to run off but the big security guard was after him in an instant, with all the speed of a rugby forward. Then all five of them disappeared around the corner of the building and that was the end of the video.
Cass found a beer from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table. She was trembling; relief mixed with fury, she realised. Jordon was physically okay, that was the main thing. And the guys involved were clearly going to be charged. But the image of her child being bashed by racist bastards in the university grounds which should be a safe place for young men and women, made her physically ill.
Half an hour later, and after she’d made many phone calls to what seemed like her entire New South Wales’ family, Jordon and Zak appeared. Jordon was limping slightly and had stitches in his forehead and a mauve bruise under his right eye. By then Zak had found the video on his phone and they’d both watched it. It was going viral.
‘Oh, man,’ said Jordon, ‘that Lisa!’
‘You know her?’ asked Cass.
‘She’s in my chem prac class. She’s the one taking the vid, and Mindy, that’s her friend, called security. Mindy sent me a text when I was in the ambulance. Just as well they were still in the building because there were two of them that jumped on me.’
‘Bastards!’ said Cass. ‘They’ll be charged. Do the coppers you spoke to know about the YouTube vision?’
‘They were just watching it when we left them in ED,’ Zak said. ‘They’ve got Jordon’s statement and they know that you’re his mum so they’ll be in touch, pretty soon, no doubt. The shits, themselves, are out at the Smithfield station, “helping the police with their inquiries”.’
27
Cairns
Sunday 12th August 2012
By Saturday evening Jordon’s bruises were fading and his wounds healing. He’d arranged to meet Lisa and Mindy in a pub at lunchtime on Sunday. Cass and Zak were both off duty and planning to spend the day at the Mareeba Wetlands. They’d just finished breakfast when Zak’s mobile rang. ED. Another doctor had phoned in sick and there were multiple casualties on their way in from a road accident on the highway near Babinda. He would have to go in to work.
‘I’m really sorry, honey!’
‘Oh, well,’ Cass replied. ‘I’ve done my share of standing you up, too! I’ll find something to do around here.’
But after he had left, and as she could hear more than one ambulance siren in the distance—clearly, he was going to be busy for the rest of the day—she thought, why not drive up there myself. It’s a beautiful spot, and I can walk right around the big lake, then have lunch at the cafe.
Also at the back of her mind was the beginning of another idea.
She pulled on jeans and a shirt and boots and filled her water bottle, texting Zak with her change of plan, and leaving a note on the kitchen table for Jordon who had not yet stirred.
Heading north towards Smithfield, she took the winding Kuranda road up the range. As soon as she started to climb, thick rainforest pushed in from both sides of the road—figs, palms and eucalypts crowding one another, blocking any view of the flatlands behind her or of the town. This was the main road between the Tablelands and Cairns so traffic was heavy—only two lanes separated by a white line, and with the oncoming mix of heavy trucks, motor cyclists, and tourists more used to driving on the right, there was no time anyway to be regarding Nature.
Halfway up, Cass decided to stop at the lookout which had been carved out of the forest on the seaward side. She climbed out and took in the view that was always agreeable no matter the weather. In the morning sunshine it was magical, the Coral Sea sparkling, the Barron winding its way through the dense mangrove swamps, the mountains towards Yarrabah blue in the distance. To her left the green cars of the SkyRail moved on oiled cables above the rainforest canopy, tourists pointing cameras and phones to record it all.
Driving on upwards, she reached the top of the range where the road levelled out and hotels, cafes and signs for rainforest trips began to appear. She reached the Kuranda turnoff and drove into the pretty little tourist town to pick up a coffee.
Taking the wheel again she headed towards Mareeba, Beyoncé’s 4 playing as she passed farms and bushland. First she wanted to go to the Wetlands. She found the turnoff and was soon parking near the reception and cafe. Beyond the building stretched the lake, reconstructed marshland now using water from the irrigation projects to the west. Hundreds of birds lived here. A flock of red-tailed black cockatoos wheeled overhead and she took out her phone and snapped a photo that she sent to Zak. In the water were pelicans and dozens of ducks fishing around in the mud. Pale pink lotus flowers floated in the shallows.
Cass’s plan was to walk around the lake, a good forty-minute hike, then check Google Maps over coffee and a sandwich. She’d already done a search for John Cowles, half-brother of Jeanie/Jennifer/Jenyfer, on Friday, and found he still farmed further west, off Cornells Road. She’d just take a look.
***
Back in Mareeba after her lunch, she drove inland. There was some distance to go before reaching Cornells Road and a further 20 kilometres to where she’d figured the Cowles property must be.
Along the road were scattered farmhouses, some old Queenslanders, but some newer white brick mansions. One sported a fine pair of plaster lions at the gates. Beyond the houses were paddocks, garages and machinery stores, and cattle. Up here, unlike the eastern side of the Great Divide, the grass was brown, and a cloud of fine dust followed her trail. Few people were around—a girl on a horse, kids doing wheelies on bikes in one yard, a woman washing a car in another. Then a long patch with no houses and no people, although a couple of dirt roads led away to her right.
She went straight past without realising it was coming up—an oil-drum mailbox with the name ‘Cowles’ painted on it. The drive to the house was quite long, and disappeared into scrub. The single-storey Queenslander was mostly hidden by the trees and Cass didn’t want to be caught looking at it. She slowed down for a few moments but then continued on her way. She’d have to drive several more kilometres and double back, then drop her speed again so she could catch another glimpse of the house. For exactly what purpose, she asked herself. Actually, she could hear Drew asking her this. Well, to try to understand who Jennifer Cowles was, where she had come from, and what her family connections might still be to this isolated place. She was pleased with this answer and drove on.
After several kilometres, the house had disappeared over the horizon behind her. There were more brown paddocks, areas of scrub between them, but no more houses, and not a soul in sight. Cass knew Cornells Road veered off and joined the road to Atherton fairly soon. She slowed, made a three-point turn, and headed back towards the Cowles’ place.
The house was hardly visible from this side of the road. A brown cow raised her head briefly to watch this rare sight.
Approximately five hundred metres past the Cowles’ mailbox was one of the dirt roads leading further inland, now on her left. On an impulse she slowed down and turned into it. A fence of weathered grey posts and straggling barbed wire separated the paddocks from the road, which suggested that this might be the boundary of the Cowles’ farm. There were no clues as to where the road might lead, and no road signs. She decided she would go five kilometres, or less if the road petered out, then turn around and head back home.
At 4.4 kilometres a weathered sign reading simply ‘Quarry’ pointed down an old dirt road off to the left.
She could see the quarry about two hundred metres away, a broken cliff face covered by scrub. Without thinking, she turned and drove towards it. Was this still the Cowles’ farm? Or public land? It wasn’t clear.
The quarry itself had been long abandoned. It had a large pit filled with stagnant brown water covered in slime. The edges were caked with mud and it was impossible to see the bottom. Beside the pit were the skeletal remains of a shed or workshop: piles of rocks and decaying timber. No doubt many snakes could be found among them. Lizards lazed on the rocks in the sunshine. There were no sounds, not even birds. It felt almost eerily silent.
Beyond the quarry the dirt road continued as a rough track. Cass drove a bit further along it. There was another old shed, in better shape than the one at the quarry but still weather-beaten. Perhaps it had been built for a worker on the Cowles’ farm, perhaps it was on another property. Beside it was a magnificent bougainvillea, the strands of the vine actually holding much of the structure together. It was just coming into crimson bloom. Not far off there were some cattle grazing on what feed they could find; they looked up and gazed at her curiously. Beyond that, more dry, brown paddocks stretched into the distance. There was no back view of the Cowles’ house, which is what she’d thought she might see.
What was she really doing here? The Cowles’ house, even if she could see it, was of no relevance to either of her current investigations. She had plenty of things to do back in Cairns. She climbed back into her car, planning a run on the Esplanade and a swim.
As she turned again onto the dirt road from the quarry a blue ute came along the road towards her, and slowed down. Passing, she waved to the driver, who looked like a farmer, and who had a German Shepherd perched on the passenger seat beside him. He didn’t wave, just stared, unsmiling. She headed back towards Cairns, feeling slightly unsettled.
28
Brisbane
Tuesday 14th August 2012
Clarkson Todd walked out through the main doors of the Novotel, hoping he was looking unconcerned. He had dismissed his regular driver, telling him he wanted some fresh air and a stroll. Of course, the man would think he was visiting a woman. That didn’t really matter. In fact, it was true, in a sense. He fingered the piece of paper in his jacket pocket that had the address written on it although he knew it well already. Windsor. 6/24 Henry Street.
He decided to walk down to Edward Street and find a cab. There were taxis lined up outside the hotel in front of him but he wanted no one, no one at all, knowing where he was going. He just wanted to be an anonymous man in a suit. Of course it might all be a red herring. He might not find the woman and she might not be the one. But then, why had he, and not that bitch Fleur Davis, been contacted, singled out? There must be a reason.
And that might mean there was something in this for himself and Jenyfer, although he hadn’t yet told his wife about it. Not until he’d seen the woman for himself. And if it was who he had been told it might be, well, he thought Jenyfer might have a plan. She usually did.
It was dusk, just six o’clock. The streets were filled with workers and shoppers on their way home so it took a few minutes to find a cab. He gave the driver the address, estimating that it would be about six-thirty when he got there. He felt that would be a good hour to call on a stranger. Time to get home from work. If she worked. If she was whatever age she’d need to be, about twenty-three, then she must be doing something, he thought.
But what if she was married? With a child? Children? What if he had to confront her husband instead of her? He had a sudden spasm of anxiety. He reassured himself. It’s all fine. You’re just helping with the search right now. No one’s aware of anything.
The cab was moving slowly through the traffic. He was glad the driver didn’t speak to him; Clarkson was not good at small talk with working people. His old man had been able to chat with anyone, the bastard, and have a lifelong friend at the end of it. Not so Clarkson. Nor was Clarkson good at putting people in their place, like Jenyfer could.
Finally, the taxi reached Henry Street.
‘Just drop me here on the corner, thanks.’ He didn’t want to stop right outside the woman’s door; he wanted to get a look at the place first.
Henry Street was tree-lined and, after the roar of traffic on Lutwyche Road, quiet. Number 24 was a complex of buildings—three-storey older-style flats with well-kept gardens around them. There was a high brick and picket fence in front with a gate, beside which were numbered doorbells for all the flats. Number 6 was labelled Markham. There was also a camera above the doorbells; if he rang number 6 and it was answered, the occupant would immediately see him.
He looked around. No one was coming along the street. He hesitated few minutes longer, looked around again, and pressed the bell for number 6.
Almost immediately a young woman answered.
‘Hello.’
‘Ah ... my name’s Clarkson.’ There were sometimes advantages to having a first name that could also be a surname. He wasn’t telling a lie.
‘And?’ asked the woman, already verging on exasperation. Clarkson could hear that she was expecting him to try to sell her something.
‘I’d like to speak to Hayley Markham,’ he said. ‘Would that be you?’
‘In connection with what?’ she countered.
‘Well...’ May as well jump straight in, he thought. ‘In connection with the identity of her father. That’s if I’ve got the right person.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ The woman’s voice was now high-pitched, uneven. ‘What do you know about her father? Who are you?’
‘Her father may be, ah, may be, a relative of mine.’
There was a silence. Then the woman spoke, slowly: ‘What kind of relative? I can see what you look like, I’ve got you on screen here. And you don’t look like you’re related to Hayley’s father. Not at all.’
This confused him. The woman—if she was Hayley—already had a father then. He must have the wrong person.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. You know Hayley Markham’s father, then. I thought she was someone who maybe didn’t know about him. For reasons I could have explained. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘No, no,’ said the woman hurriedly. ‘I...I’d like to hear what you have to say. Look, I’ll come down to the gate and talk to you there. Just give me two minutes.’
***
Jock Starling just made the six-eleven from Central, squeezing in as the doors closed. He’d had no time to look on the platform for either the girl or the artist. Frankly, he was beginning to doubt his own recollections of the sketch. After all, he’d only ever looked at it for a few minutes. Maybe it was just the similarity of a young woman drawn in black and white in the Comfit picture.
