Thin Blood (7 page)

Her face
crumpled. She had seen enough of police detectives over the years to recognise
them when she saw them. The first officer, standing about a metre back from the
doorstep, was a tall woman in her mid to late thirties, her fair hair pulled
back in a ponytail. Just to her left and slightly back stood her partner, a
clean-shaven, solidly built man in his twenties. Both wore suits, the male
detective looking distinctly uncomfortable in his.

She would have
slammed the door in their faces if the woman hadn’t already put her foot in the
doorway.

“Police,” said
the woman, holding up her identification badge. Introducing herself as
Detective Sergeant Renee White and her partner as Detective Constable Mark
Fratta, she then asked to come in.

Even though
Narelle knew she had every right to refuse them entry, she didn’t have the
energy to fight. She hadn’t considered why the police might be there. In her
experience, police equated to endless accusations and questioning.

Feeling
outnumbered and vulnerable, she stepped back from the door, wondering if she
should be calling a lawyer. At any other time, she would have wanted Craig by
her side, but his state of mind was already fragile enough.

Sunday’s visit
from Grace had been the trigger, but Tuesday’s newspaper article compounded it.
She desperately wanted to help him but every time she tried, he just withdrew
further. He had become remote, to the extent of sleeping in the guest room. Or
not sleeping.

At night, alone
in their bed, she would lie awake, listening to her husband prowl around the
house. She would hear the clink of glass against glass and know that he was
seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. It frightened her.

Being confronted
by police officers, whatever their reason for being there, would bring it all
back, perhaps pushing him over the edge. She couldn’t risk that. She could, and
would, deal with it on her own.

As she turned to
close the door, she heard raised voices. She kept her body shielded by the door
and peered out. Standing on the footpath, dwarfed by a posse of reporters, was
Jacinta, slapping her hands at the air like she was trying to shoo off a couple
of pesky flies.

But the
reporters, like flies, weren’t about to be deterred. It wouldn’t matter what
Jacinta did, they weren’t leaving. Quite the contrary.

The visit by the
police and then Jacinta seemed to have revved up their interest somewhat.
Undaunted by Jacinta’s accusations of trespassing, the cameras followed her
every movement, microphones poised to catch every sound.

It wasn’t until
Jacinta’s foot left the top step that Narelle managed to catch her attention.
Jacinta’s eyes widened, but she said nothing as Narelle reached out, hooked her
arm and pulled her through the narrow opening of the door.

Jacinta rubbed her arm, surprised
at the intensity of Narelle’s grip. Narelle stood barefoot in front of her, her
skin as pale and translucent as the white, loose-woven shirt she wore. Almost
as if the vivid scarlet and yellow hues of the close to mural-sized abstract
painting on the wall behind her had sucked all the colour from her. She looked
ill.

The muffled
sound of a male voice coming from somewhere in the depths of the house startled
Jacinta. From the phone call, she had expected Narelle to be home alone. Was
Craig at home, too? If so, why wasn’t he comforting his wife?

Narelle answered
Jacinta’s unspoken questions with a barely audible whisper: “Police.”

Jacinta’s mind
went into overdrive. What would the police be doing calling on Narelle? Her
first thought was that they were delivering bad news. Had someone been
seriously injured — or worse, died? Was it Craig? Was it something to do with
Grace Kevron? Had it anything to do with the old murder case?

Her thoughts
were cut short when Narelle headed up the hall, signalling for Jacinta to
follow. As they passed the airy kitchen and meals area, drawing closer to the
northern end of the house, a softer feminine voice joined the male’s.

The open
cathedral-ceiling space Jacinta stepped down into took her breath away. Her
whole home could have fitted into the room without a squeeze. The polished
timber floors, the plush rugs, the buff leather couches and armchairs all
exuded wealth and taste. An eclectic mix of artworks, undoubtedly originals,
adorned the walls. Bright sunlight streamed in through the expanse of glass
overlooking the swimming pool.

Awestruck, she
wondered if this was Narelle’s or Craig’s influence at work. But then it
suddenly occurred to her that she was standing in a crime scene, albeit an old
one.

Jolted back to
reality, she shook her head and blinked. On the far side of the room she saw,
rather than heard, Narelle offering a seat to a tall, fair-haired woman and a
younger, stocky man, who Jacinta presumed were police detectives. As curious as
she was, she hung back, not wanting to intrude.

The detectives
shifted in their seats, looking as uncomfortable as Narelle, who was perched
awkwardly on the couch opposite with her knees together and ankles splayed. Her
eyes darted left and right, anywhere but directly at the officers. Then her
gaze caught Jacinta’s. Narelle’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth as
if Jacinta had suddenly materialised from out of nowhere.

Eventually,
recognition dawned in Narelle’s eyes. She beckoned, frantically patting the
seat beside her. Jacinta hesitated, unsure of what she should be doing. It felt
like she had walked onto a film set in the middle of a take and forgotten her
lines. What was her role supposed to be?

Taking a deep
breath, she moved across the room to join Narelle. A long, narrow, blue gum
coffee table acted as a barrier between the police and Narelle. As Jacinta sank
down onto the couch next to her, she glanced across at the detectives’ faces.
Their expressions portrayed nothing, not even the slightest impatience at being
kept waiting.

Narelle didn’t
introduce Jacinta to the officers, nor did they seem particularly interested in
her presence, their focus firmly centred on Narelle.

The female
detective spoke first, her voice low. “Ms Croswell,” she said, sitting forward
in her seat and pulling a plastic bag from her jacket pocket, “do you recognise
this at all?” She slid the bag across the coffee table toward Narelle.

For a few
moments Narelle just stared at the bag, seemingly unable to bring herself to
pick it up. “What is it?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. She began to mangle
the ball of scrunched-up tissues in her hands.

Even though the
question was directed at the female, it was the male officer who spoke. “When
your sister, Kirsty…” He paused for a fraction of a second, as if weighing his
words, before continuing, “…disappeared, you gave us a description of a gold
cross that she always wore.”

Narelle had
visibly stiffened at the mention of her sister, but still made no move to
examine the bag.

The detective
continued, “Would you mind looking at this,” he picked up the bag from the
table and tried to hand it to her, “and telling us if this is like the one
Kirsty owned.”

Narelle’s hand
trembled when she finally reached out and took the bag from his fingers. Her
breathing laboured, she manoeuvred the cross into the corner of the sealed
evidence bag. Laying it flat on her palm, she stared at the small, tarnished
gold cross, a deep-blue sapphire set in its centre. She stopped breathing.

All eyes were on
Narelle. The heightening tension hung like a pall over them. No one moved.

Sandwiching the
bag between her palms, Narelle closed her eyes tight, bringing her hands up
under her chin in a silent prayer. No one else moved.

The male
detective cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

Narelle’s eyes
popped open, giving her the wide-eyed, vacant look of a child’s doll. And then,
without warning, she lurched from the couch. The plastic bag containing the
cross tumbled to the floor. With one hand covering her mouth and the other
clutching her stomach, she fled the room.

The detectives
looked sideways at each other before turning their attention to Jacinta. If
they were looking for an explanation, they were definitely looking in the wrong
place. Jacinta was as much in the dark as they were. Regardless, she didn’t
need to be Einstein to work out that Narelle was ill.

Jacinta stood
up, intending to go after Narelle, but stopped when she heard the young male
detective muttering under his breath. His partner shot him a reproving glance,
but by then it was too late. It had taken less than a second for his words to
register.

Outraged,
Jacinta turned on him, lashing out at him for his snide remark. ‘Murderer’s
whore’ or ‘murderous whore’, she wasn’t sure which; it didn’t matter. And even
though she knew the words weren’t intended for her ears, they were uncalled for
and totally unprofessional coming from a police officer.

She had jumped
to Narelle’s defence, not because she believed in her innocence, but because
she felt strongly that everyone deserved a fair go. Any personal prejudices the
detective had should have been left at home. After all, Narelle was the
victim’s sister, and not, as far as Jacinta knew, a suspect.

Out of the
corner of her eye, she glimpsed the senior detective. The female officer’s
mouth was moving, but if she had spoken, Jacinta hadn’t heard her. Too angry by this time to bother with niceties, Jacinta reached down and grabbed the evidence
bag from the floor, thrusting it into the startled woman’s hands before
storming off to tend to Narelle.

It wasn’t until
she reached the kitchen that it occurred to her she was in a strange house,
with no idea where Narelle might be. Except for the strident whispers of the
police in the living room, the house was silent.

She sighed,
consoling herself with the flippant thought that at least she knew her way to
the front door. If all else failed, she could make a run for it.

A toilet
flushed.

Jacinta started
walking in the general direction of the noise, feeling like a prowler casing
the house as she checked each room she passed. She was zeroing in on a closed
door at the end of the hall when it opened. Narelle emerged from the doorway,
wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking paler than she had
before, if that was possible. Her hairline was damp, a couple of wet curls
clinging to her cheek.

Narelle smiled
weakly at Jacinta. “Just a stomach bug,” she said, patting her flat stomach.
Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked, “Are they still here?”

Jacinta nodded.
“Do you want me to tell them you’re too sick to see them?”

Narelle shook
her head wearily. “No, if it’s not today, it’ll be another time. Might as well
get it over with.”

“Would you
prefer me to leave?”

Perhaps
Narelle’s reluctance to speak to the police came from having an outsider
present.

“No.” The word
echoed in the hall. Narelle leaned closer to Jacinta, dropping her voice. “I
mean, please don’t go; I could do with a friend about now.” Pausing briefly,
she added, “That’s only if you want to, of course.”

It’s the very
least I can do for you
, thought Jacinta. She felt like a fraud. If only
Narelle knew the truth about her newfound friend, she wouldn’t be standing
there, pleading with her eyes for Jacinta to stay. It didn’t matter that
Jacinta had renounced her journalistic ambitions: the damage was done. Thanks
to her, old wounds had been opened. The media, along with Grace Kevron, were
baying for blood.

Not trusting
herself to speak, Jacinta simply nodded and followed Narelle down the hall.

The two
detectives had given up waiting in the living area and were loitering near the
kitchen. The female officer held a mobile phone to her ear with one hand and
was busy writing notes with the other. The male officer stood head down, hands
in pockets, scuffing his feet on the tiled floor. He looked up briefly without
acknowledging them, and then returned to acting like an insolent schoolboy.

When the female
officer finished on the phone, Narelle switched into hostess mode, introducing
Jacinta to the detectives but leaving it to them to introduce themselves when
she stumbled on their ranks and names. Detective Sergeant Renee White extended
a hand, which Jacinta happily accepted. Detective Constable Mark Fratta, on the
other hand, kept his hands firmly planted in his pockets, a thinly veiled scowl
on his face. The feeling was mutual.

Narelle was
acting as if it were a social occasion, fluffing around in the kitchen, filling
the kettle, opening cupboards. Her offers of coffee, tea, juice, water or
perhaps something stronger were all turned down. She opened drawers, closing
them again before moving on to the next, as if searching for something. That,
or playing for time. One look at Narelle’s wringing hands told Jacinta it was
the latter.

Looking to
Narelle for confirmation, DS Renee White suggested they all take a seat at the
round glass table in the meals area next to the kitchen.

DC Mark Fratta
made the first move, taking the seat closest to him. The DS opted for the chair
next to him. Narelle was dallying at the end of the kitchen bench, seemingly
waiting for all her visitors to be seated before joining them.

Jacinta glanced
at the two remaining chairs, settling for the chair opposite Mark Fratta rather
than the one beside him. She sat down, immediately wishing she had chosen the
other seat. If she kept her eyes down, she looked straight through the glass
tabletop at the fabric bunched around the DC’s groin, and if she looked up, she
was staring him in the face.

Thankfully,
Narelle joining them provided them all with a temporary distraction. She didn’t
know about anyone else, but Jacinta found the whole situation disconcerting and
rather farcical. All it would have taken was for them to join hands and they
could have had a séance. Maybe then they could find out what had really
happened all those years ago.