Daughters of Eve, page 24
Despite the DCI’s edict that overtime was unlimited and encouraged for the duration of the national emergency, I wasn’t spending my personal time pushing paper for Peterson, so I’d stayed home and fought to forget Grace’s face on a screen in a dingy basement. But when I walked onto the squad room floor, it all came rushing back. The muscles tightened in my neck and shoulders as silent eyes tracked my progress.
Robbo looked up as I dropped my things on my desk and sat. ‘Hart.’
I didn’t answer. I’d texted him several times over the weekend but got no reply. I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out Casey Hamilton’s file. It was back to cold cases for me unless the DCI directed me to work on taskforce paperwork.
Feeding Canberra’s insatiable desire to track everything to the exclusion of actual police work didn’t appeal to me any more than the idea of working with Peterson did.
The only reason I’d come in at all was because tonight was the monthly domestic violence meeting at the cathedral. With Patty now in protective custody and Ryan detained, there was no potential for a conflict of interest if I went along to see who showed up.
‘Can I have a word, please?’ Robbo stood and jerked his head towards the kitchen.
I followed him in and planted my hands on my hips. ‘What do you want, Robbo?’
‘I want you to stop acting like an arse.’
My mouth fell open. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He shook his head. ‘What were you thinking, texting me about the case? You know I can’t talk to you about it.’
‘Sorry? What are you doing now?’
‘I’m telling you I can’t tell you anything.’
I laughed but it came out as more of a snort. ‘And what do you think Peterson thinks we’re doing in here?’
Robbo shrugged. ‘I don’t really care what Peterson thinks. I care about you, Hart.’
I fixed him with a steady stare. ‘You want to know what I think, Robbo? I think if the shoe was on the other foot, you’d be doing a lot more than texting me for information.’
He shook his head and opened one of the kitchen cabinets. Reaching up to the top shelf, he pulled down a file that had been lying hidden.
‘Make sure you don’t get caught with it and push it to the back of the shelf when you’re done. It doesn’t leave the floor, okay?’
I snatched the file and headed straight to the women’s bathroom where I closed a cubicle door behind me and leaned against it, before flicking through the pages.
I skimmed the notes from Ryan’s interview and smiled at Robbo’s technique. Ryan had denied ownership of the house and therefore the computer, saying he was just visiting a sex worker. That left him with nowhere to go when the gun charges were raised. In the end, even with his lawyer present, he’d copped to possession of an unregistered firearm, unlawfully carrying that firearm and assaulting a police officer, a trifecta that was likely to see him detained without bail.
Patty’s interview went badly. Robbo’s aggressive questions felt like a physical assault as he accused her of owning the house, the dungeon and the computer. Having seen her reaction when I’d found the hidden stairs and heard Ryan’s admission that he had assaulted Grace, I was in possession of information that cast a different light on her reactions. Information that would be inadmissible and which, if I shared it, would taint anything Robbo discovered. He was following the evidence and I had to believe the evidence would lead him to the truth. Eventually.
It was the last page in the folder that tipped my world off its axis. It was a transfer request from Forensics sending the computer to the Cyber Unit of the Child Abuse and Sex Crimes Squad stating that they’d discovered a significant number of child abuse images and indications that the computer was part of a closed-loop peer-to-peer file-sharing network.
I couldn’t know if there were pictures from Grace’s abusive childhood on that computer, but the things she’d shared with me in the shower that day kept coming back to me, over and over, along with Ryan’s evil taunt. If only I’d been able to empty my mind as easily as I emptied the contents of my stomach into the bleach-scented toilet bowl.
A streetlight flickered and the car park’s tarmac sparkled, despite the evening’s rain having stopped twenty minutes ago. I shivered under the dripping boughs of an ornamental evergreen, hoping its shadow would keep me hidden. My hand slipped into my jacket, checking the place my holster would usually be. I’d gone back and forth on the issue before deciding to leave my gun in the locker at work. Strictly speaking, I was on duty so I should be carrying, but the glimpse of a gun would raise questions I didn’t want to answer if I was spotted.
A car splashed slowly down the street but didn’t stop and I stamped my feet in the soft, turned soil, trying to stop the pins and needles climbing any further up my calves. The meeting was due to begin and I hadn’t spotted any of the widows going in.
‘Can I help you?’
I froze, hoping the woman’s words were meant for someone else, until a heavy hand fell on my shoulder.
‘Um. I …’ I turned to find a concerned face peering from under a water-laden branch.
‘That looks like a chilly place to wait for an Uber.’ Her voice trod the line between cautious and kind.
I didn’t meet her gaze.
‘Why don’t you come out from under there? I’ve got a towel here; maybe we can dry you off.’
She tugged my arm gently and I followed her onto the path.
What must I look like?
If it had been me, finding a bedraggled woman lurking in the shadows outside a domestic violence support group meeting, I’d have guessed she was a private investigator hired by a controlling hubby. I probably would have called the police, not brandished the towel this woman was using to execute a clever pat down in the guise of concern.
What did she find? No gun. No camera. Not even a bag. I felt her hand hesitate over the phone in my pocket.
‘We’d better get that dried off too.’ She slipped the mobile phone out and rubbed it with her towel. The screen lit up and I saw her face illuminated and read relief and compassion. She’d done her due diligence that I wasn’t taking photos.
She handed me the phone and smiled. ‘I think I know why you’re here.’
Was it that obvious I was a police officer?
‘Would you like to come into the meeting?’
I frowned for a moment, then realising there might be another entrance, I nodded.
‘It can be a bit overwhelming the first time. Why don’t we go in together?’
She draped the towel over my shoulders, slipped her arm protectively around my waist and steered me towards the door.
‘I’m Sister Patricia,’ she said. ‘But you can call me Trish. I organise these meetings and I can assure you, you’ll find no judgement here, only support.’
The heat was oppressive as I walked into the large, dimly lit room. People milled around by a circle of orange plastic chairs in the centre, some talking while others sat alone with their phones. Trish paused and looked around.
That’s when I spotted Phoebe Griffith-Jones over by a low trestle table lined with mugs and an urn, her head bowed and her fingers flying over the screen of her phone.
‘Let’s get something to warm you up,’ Trish suggested, gesturing towards the table.
‘I’m fine, I’ll just take a seat.’ I lifted the towel and started rubbing my hair, using the towel to block Phoebe’s view of my face.
‘I’ll see if I can find a dry towel.’ Trish disappeared through an internal door and I started towards the entrance. I’d be thrown out as soon as Phoebe identified me, so I might as well get out with my dignity intact.
‘I thought it was you.’ Thin fingers peeled back the towel and Phoebe was standing beside me, smiling.
‘Hello, Phoebe.’
Her eyes were a black smudge and her lips dark ruddy red.
‘This was all I could find, sorry.’ Trish appeared behind Phoebe with a roll of paper towels and I smiled awkwardly.
Trish looked between us. ‘Do you two know each other?’
I waited for Phoebe to drop the hammer but instead her face broke into a radiant smile. ‘I remember how hard it was, coming to my first meeting. I was just welcoming … ?’
Phoebe turned to me, that smile still fixed in place.
‘Call me Emilia.’
Phoebe nodded. ‘Welcome Emilia. I’m Phoebe.’
I thought I was pretty clued up on domestic violence. I had my own lived experience, my work as a beat cop and a homicide detective, and I’d read the stats, scoured academic papers and prepared documents for court proceedings. As the evening progressed, I began to realise how little I really knew.
When the murmured conversation subsided, Trish had broken the fidgety silence. ‘How’s the month been?’
The rumble of nervous coughs made its way around the circle until Phoebe piped up. ‘It’s been bloody brilliant, actually!’
All eyes turned to her, but hers stayed stubbornly on me.
I expected her statement to provoke shock or outrage but most faces were smiling.
‘He’s dead—my dad. He was one of the guys on that list everyone’s talking about.’
‘Phoebe.’ There was gentle admonishment in Trish’s voice but Phoebe burbled on regardless.
‘The old perv got what he deserved and I don’t really care about the shit they’ve stirred up. I’d hug the person who killed him—if they ever catch them.’
Was that a wink? Don’t out me now, Phoebe, I begged silently.
‘Thanks for getting us started.’ Trish’s smile looked a little forced. ‘Who’s next?’
A shiver rippled around the circle until someone else raised her hand. Dressed modestly in a long skirt and a knit cardigan, the next speaker had long blonde hair, swept over one eye.
‘My husband’s been on edge. First, it was that Daughters of Eve thing. He took my phone. Said if his name turned up on that list, he’d dig me a grave down past Belanglo.’
A murmur. Some nods. I had wondered if the Daughters would cause a surge in domestic violence. Violence was most often linked to power, and the Daughters had shifted the balance.
‘Then the soldiers. He’s never liked the police, but he goes off like a cracker every time he sees a soldier on the street.’
She went quiet then, but no-one else spoke. They must have known what was coming.
She lifted the hair from over her face and the world slipped away like I’d crested the rise on a rollercoaster. A huge blue-black bruise stretched back from her bloodshot eye, over her cheekbone and disappeared into her hairline with mottled patches of purple, red, black and sickly green-yellow.
Had she always worn her hair like that or did she style it to hide her husband’s brutality? Then she lifted her shirt and cardigan to reveal more bruising, extensive and dark. It seemed there wasn’t a square inch of skin on this woman’s torso that wasn’t discoloured.
It was Helen who’d explained to me that the variation in colour meant it wasn’t a single beating but a series of them all at different stages of healing.
Trish tried to smile but it was watery and weak at best. ‘Thanks for sharing, Megan. How’s your boy?’
There was a kid in that house?!
Megan’s lip quivered. ‘Tommy’s with my sister for the school holidays.’
The room gave a collective sigh.
‘And your plan to leave?’
Megan’s head dropped and the rock that had been forming in my chest doubled down.
‘I can’t.’ Her voice was so quiet I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
‘He’s threatened my mum and my sister. My mum’s in a nursing home and Tracy’s in community housing. Neither of them can afford to move.’
I waited for tears. For some sign of the emotion that must be pounding her on the inside as hard as he was beating her on the outside.
Trish nodded. Her lips went thin and I wondered if she wanted to scream as much as I did.
There had to be a way to escape.
But I knew there wasn’t. How long would it be until Tommy’s dad went too far, until Megan showed up in a file on my desk?
It kept building, the longer I sat in that cheap plastic chair, a rumbling discomfort down low in my gut. The feeling you get when you’ve eaten something dodgy.
The flow of conversation was beginning to falter and I couldn’t wait to get out into the chilly night air. Most of the women had talked about violence and coercive control, one woman had been raped by her partner. Phoebe hadn’t shared any more after announcing that her dad was dead and there were no other children present.
I was ready to ride into the metaphorical sunset with concrete confirmation of a connection between this group and at least one of our Sydney shooter’s victims. If I walked Phoebe out, I could show her pictures of Maria Jennings and Zanthe or her mother, Angie, since she seemed to be a regular
The light at the end of this heartbreaking tunnel was burning bright and then Trish said, ‘It’s been a while and …’
The room went quiet as all eyes turned to her.
‘Some of you are new, you might wonder why I started this group.’
A heavy hush descended.
‘I was nine when I met Patricia. Our teacher dubbed her Patty and me Trish so she didn’t get confused. Patty was my best friend.’
Gooseflesh rose over my skin. Trish had my undivided attention.
‘We were inseparable at school, but my mother wouldn’t let me visit Patty or sleep over at her house. She said she didn’t know Patty’s parents well enough.’
Could this be a coincidence?
‘When Patty invited me to a sleepover for her tenth birthday, I begged my mother until she finally relented. Patty’s mum made a meatloaf. Her sister, Abbey, baked a cake. We wore party hats and danced to our favourite songs turned right up loud. Patty’s dad was a long-haul trucker and he was away, doing a two-day run north. Then his truck broke down.’
I had chills.
‘He got in around midnight. Patty and I were still awake, lying on the mattress her mum had made up for me on the bedroom floor. I heard a crash, like something breaking. A window or a vase. Then shouting, and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. He moved through the house like a bear. Yelling. Breaking things. Breaking people. I didn’t know it at the time, but he beat Patty’s mum and her sister.’
My chest was tight, my breath shallow and rapid.
‘He was in her sister’s room, raging and crashing when Patty got me to help her push the mattress back under her bed. He was in the hall when she got me to climb into her cupboard and hide.’
My mouth went dry, my heart pounded.
‘Hello, Princess. I can still hear his voice. Patty made noises like a wounded animal while I was curled up in the dark, surrounded by the softness of her clothes and the scent of baby powder, wishing I was home in bed, with my mum tucking me in.’
My hands trembled in my lap. I could hear my grandma humming in the kitchen. The smell of boiled beef and cabbage wafting down the hall. The feel of Grandpa’s cold hand as it slid up my inner thigh and tugged at the tight elastic on my undies.
‘I blocked my ears but I couldn’t escape the rasp of his breath, and the rhythmic strain of the springs, the clunk as something struck the wall. Then a gasping moan. And silence. I’m so, so sorry, Patty whispered when she finally opened the cupboard door. She comforted me. As if I was the one he’d hurt.’
Trish wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper and waited. I’m not sure what for. But when she spoke again her voice was stronger. The voice of a woman on her path.
‘I’m sorry if that’s not the first time you’ve heard that story. I tell it every few months as a kind of penance. To make sure I never forget.’
‘Penance?’ The word flew out of me, heavy with outrage. I was so sick of women carrying shame for the actions of men. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’
Trish’s eyes hardened and her lips thinned as she spoke. ‘I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid my mother would stop me seeing Patty. My silence meant he stayed free, able to continue raping my friend and beating Abbey and his wife.’
It felt like time stopped, like my heart wasn’t beating in my chest for a full minute. But Trish was still speaking.
‘If I’d told someone, if I’d been brave enough to tell my mother, maybe someone might have stopped him hurting his family.’
‘You were a child, you wouldn’t lay that guilt on anyone else’s child, would you?’
But Trish didn’t answer me, instead she changed the subject, shared some final messages, and a reminder about tea and coffee, and pamphlets for the underfunded services struggling to find sanctuary for those brave enough to leave.
And then the group began to disperse, but I stayed behind. I knew I needed to talk to Trish.
‘Got what you came for? Cheap thrills from the victim freak show?’
I turned, but before I could answer her Phoebe stormed off. Probably for the best, as I wasn’t sure how she’d react if I told her I was looking for the person she wanted to hug.
I made a cup of tea while Trish talked to the woman who’d bared her bruises at the beginning of the meeting. Alone at the table, I leafed through the brochures. I’d rung nearly all these services and I knew how stretched they were.
‘Are you waiting for me?’
I looked up. Trish’s smile had a haunted quality that I understood now.
‘I’m sorry to ask, but your friend Patty—I think I might know her. Was her surname Prescott?’
Trish’s face told me all I needed to know even as she mumbled about privacy and anonymity. I walked out of the church hall with a new lead to follow—one which wouldn’t be tainted by my connection to Grace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘What do you mean I’d better be bloody sure? When are we ever sure when we start following a lead?’ I glared at Robbo over the cafe table. He hadn’t been keen when I’d rung this morning suggesting an early coffee. I suspect he thought I’d be grilling him for information, not giving it to him, but I wanted to test my theory in a Peterson-free space.
