She closed the back door. ‘But you know that I really am all right – if you need to swap or whatever.’
‘I know.’ He got in the passenger seat and clipped in his belt. His heart was beating high in his chest.
Jane started the engine and he told her the address. ‘Want me to look it up?’
‘I’m good.’ She pulled
out of the station and swung onto George Street heading south, then hit the lights and siren.
Evening was falling on the city and the sky between the buildings was purple and pink. Alex kept his eyes on the crowds of office workers scurrying over the road, watched the cars giving way at cross streets when Jane went through red lights, and told himself to stay calm.
The house in Potts
Point was painted white with grey trim. It was three storeys high, with cast-iron balconies on the ground and first floor, then a gable with French doors and another similar but tiny balcony poking through the roof of the second floor. The doors there stood open and a woman leaned over the balcony, her hand out to a girl who sat beyond reach on the sloping roof tiles. The house’s front door was
red, and a man flung it open and rushed out as they pulled up.
Alex picked up the microphone. ‘Thirty-five’s on scene. Any word from police?’
‘Not so far, but I’ll call them again,’ the controller replied.
‘She’s up there,’ the man called through the ambulance’s closed window. His face was white. There was blood on his shirt. Alex knew from the look in his eyes that he was the
father.
He opened his door and grabbed the Viva and first-aid kit. ‘What happened?’
‘We found her cutting herself in the bathroom, and were trying to stop the bleeding when she pulled away and rushed out there.’ The man talked over his shoulder as he hurried back up the steps. Alex followed, Jane close behind him with the drug box and monitor. ‘She won’t come back in, won’t even talk
to us. And she’s still bleeding.’
The house was lush inside. Alex got glimpses of thick carpets in neutral tones and soft furniture as they went up one flight of internal stairs then another. His thighs and lungs burned, keeping up with the dad.
‘Has she ever done anything like this before?’ he asked.
‘She’s cut herself once, about a month ago,’ the father said. ‘But she’s never
gone out there before.’
The top floor was one room under sloping ceilings with an en suite at the back. One corner was occupied by a wide desk covered with papers, textbooks and a laptop, and the pink walls were dotted with band posters. A blue school uniform lay crumpled on the floor.
Stay calm.
‘Is she on medication?’
‘Nothing,’ the father said, as a woman came in through the
French doors, tears streaming down her face.
‘She won’t even look at me,’ she sobbed.
Alex put the Viva and kit on the floor near the doors, getting a grip on his breathing. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Rebecca.’
He glanced at Jane, who was paler than ever, and stepped out onto the tiny balcony.
The girl sat on the tiles hugging her knees, the lower legs of her pink tracksuit
pants soaked with blood. She was barefoot and her blood-streaked arms were goosepimpled below the sleeves of a thin pale blue T-shirt. Her face was pale. The air was cool and the sky darkening, lights coming on in the houses across the street, cars going along below like nothing was happening.
‘Hi,’ Alex said, hands sweaty.
She didn’t answer. Her dark hair was pulled back in a stumpy
ponytail and he could see that her eyes were fixed on the street.
‘My name’s Alex. Is it okay if I call you Rebecca?’
Again she didn’t answer. She was midway between the wall of the next house and the balcony, about two arm’s-lengths from him. The pitch of the roof was steep, and from the gutter it was too many metres straight down onto concrete.
‘Can you show me your arms, please?’
he asked.
She raised one then the other, then rewrapped her legs. In the few seconds glimpse he saw enough.
‘Excuse me for a second.’ He turned to see Jane just inside the doors. ‘She’s got deep lengthwise lacerations on both arms and they’re still bleeding.’
She nodded and stepped away with the portable radio. Alex could hear the mother weeping over his own thudding heart.
He faced Rebecca again. ‘Thanks for showing me. I really need to put some bandages on those. Could you come over here so I can do that, please?’
She shook her head, just once, short and definitive. When she moved, he saw the shine of perspiration on her cheek. She’d lost enough blood to be in the early stages of shock, and if she continued to lose it she’d soon fall unconscious. The
pitch was steep enough that once she went limp, she’d slip down and fall off.
He swallowed hard. ‘Rebecca, I’ve been in a place like you before.’
She didn’t answer.
‘The pain was so bad I thought I’d be better off dead. I thought, what’s the point of living when it’s so hard, when every day is just more pain? I’d be better off gone, and my family and friends would be better off
for not having to have me around.’
She didn’t move. He saw a bead of sweat run down her neck.
‘People told me that things would get better, but I thought, what would they know? How can they understand what I feel? They’re just saying that.’
Behind him, Jane whispered, ‘Fireys and cops are five to ten minutes away.’
They didn’t have that long. He murmured over his shoulder,
‘Get a rope.’
Rebecca put her forehead on her knees.
Alex gripped the railing. ‘Rebecca, can you look at me, please?’
‘I’m too tired.’
At least she was speaking.
‘Please just turn your head so you can see me.’
She did so slowly. Her lips were blue, her eyes with dark circles, hair lank with sweat. She was shivering.
Alex felt sweat gathering on his own
forehead. ‘Please shuffle over here so I can bandage your arms and we can talk.’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll come over there.’
She shrugged.
He crouched by the first-aid kit and stuffed his pockets with pads and bandages. He could hear Jane down at the ambulance, digging the rope out of the back. She’d be back up in a minute, but when he looked back at Rebecca he realised even that
was too long. Her arms were loosening around her knees, her eyes closing, one foot slipping down the tiles.
Alex climbed over the railing.
EIGHTEEN
E
lla drove slowly past Miriam Holder’s address in Tamarama, looking for her blue Toyota among the cars parked on the street. The sky over the sea was a darkening shade of blue and with the window down she could hear the surf pounding the rocks around the headland and smell the salt in the evening air. People walked along the footpaths, some in suits with briefcases,
some in jogging gear with impatient dogs pulling at leads. None of them paid her any attention.
Stupid Langley. She and Murray should’ve been in an interview room hammering Fletcher, or Canning, or at the very least both here, the two of them sharing the watching, ready to take Holder down if she appeared. Instead, Ella was here on her own, in the hope that she might see something and get
to phone in another anonymous tip in the morning. Not that her call about Fletcher had got her anywhere significant, but it was better than nothing.
She cruised around the block, hands slightly sweaty on the wheel, with no success finding the Toyota, then squeezed her car into a space thirty metres from Holder’s building. From there she could see Holder’s windows on the top floor. She couldn’t
make out any movement, and there was still too much brightness in the evening to see if any lights were on, but the sky was turning deep purple beyond the unit blocks all down the street and behind her in the mirror the orange and lavender clouds were fading. It’d be dark enough soon.
She felt conspicuous as she settled into her seat, a magazine open on her lap in the hope that she looked
like she was killing time while waiting for someone. She eyed the box in the plastic bag with the camping store logo that sat in the passenger footwell.
After fifteen minutes, the orange and lavender were gone and the squabbling over perches by the birds in the trees along the footpaths was dying down. Pedestrians were fewer, passing cars had their headlights on, and she could smell dinners
cooking in countless kitchens. Her stomach rumbled. She stared at the windows in the top floor and thought she could see lights.
She looked around for passers-by, then reached for the box in the bag, tore off the top and lifted out the binoculars. The smell of new plastic filled the car. She reclined the seat a fraction, checked again for pedestrians, then put the binoculars to her eyes.
The windows came into sharp focus even in the gloom. The curtains were open and she could see the edge of a light fitting. The globe was off, but the fitting cast a shadow on the ceiling, meaning there was definitely light coming from elsewhere in the apartment. It was steady, so it wasn’t from a TV. She imagined a floor lamp or a ceiling light in another room.
She watched the light grow
brighter as the outside world darkened, hoping to see movement, hoping to see Holder herself come to the window and look out at the sea.
A mosquito whined and she slapped at her neck and pressed the button to raised the windows. They’d only been open a crack, but the car quickly became too stuffy. She lowered the binoculars. There’d been no movement, but that didn’t mean Holder wasn’t in
there. She could be hiding. And she mightn’t expect the police at this time of day.
Ella opened the driver’s door and got out.
The sensor light above the front door of the building clicked on as she stepped up to the panel of buttons. She pressed Number 8 and waited. After a minute of silence, she pressed it again, longer, then walked back out to near the letterboxes and looked up
at the windows. No movement.
It better be the right windows.
Back at the step, she hit eight again, then seven. Then six.
‘Yes?’
‘New South Wales police detective,’ Ella said. ‘I need to get into the building. Could you open the door, please?’
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ the man said.
There was no security camera system. ‘I’ll come up and show you my badge
if you like.’
A moment’s pause, then the door buzzed open. Ella pushed into the small foyer, which smelled like glass cleaner, and started up the stairs. She glanced up the stairwell to see a man looking down from the third-floor landing, and she had her badge out ready when she got there.
He hardly looked at it. ‘Has something happened?’
‘I’m just doing a routine check as part
of an investigation,’ she said. ‘Do you know all your neighbours?’
‘Is everyone okay?’
He was around fifty, soft-shouldered as if he spent his days over a desk, wore glasses with wire frames and had a hint of whisky on his breath. From the open door behind him came the smell of lamb cutlets cooking. Her stomach complained again.
‘As I said, I’m just doing some checks.’ She thought
she heard a noise on the next floor and looked up, but saw nobody. ‘Do you know the people in Numbers 7 and 8?’
‘They’re both single ladies, but I don’t know their names. We all nod and smile if we run into each other, but that’s about all,’ he said. ‘One’s about seventy, she lives in Number 7. The one in Number 8’s younger, about forty or so.’
‘When was the last time you saw either
of them?’
He rubbed his chin. ‘The older one I guess I saw yesterday; the younger one probably the day before. I work long hours and leave pretty early.’
‘Ever hear much noise coming from up there?’
‘Never,’ he said. ‘They’re very quiet. Everyone in the building is. Very considerate.’
‘And you all have to park your cars on the street?’
He shrugged. ‘You get used to
it.’
‘Either of them get many visitors?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘As I said, I’m out a lot.’
‘You don’t hear hordes of people going up the stairs though, when you are home?’
‘No.’ He smiled.
Ella smiled back. ‘And you don’t happen to know any of their family or friends?’
‘Sorry.’
‘One last question,’ she said. ‘Did you see or hear anyone strange in
the last few days? Or did anyone buzz and try to get in with no good reason?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re starting to worry me a bit.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s nothing to feel concerned about, really. I’ll just go up and see if they’re in. Thanks for your help.’
She went up to the next flight, feeling his eyes on her back, then reached the top-floor landing. Unit 8 was to her right, 7 to
her left. She had been looking at the correct windows. She went to 8’s door and listened, but heard nothing. There was no peephole. No light shone under the door onto her shoes, but the carpet could be high enough to block it out.
She knocked.
No answer, and no sound.
She knocked again. She could feel the man downstairs still there, listening, but she got no sense that there
was anyone standing behind this door, holding their breath, trying to be quiet.
She took out her mobile and scrolled through to when she’d last called Holder’s number. She pressed to call and put her head close to the door. It rang five times but she couldn’t hear it in the flat. When it went to voicemail, she hung up. Okay. So maybe Holder wasn’t home. If she was dead in the flat, and her
phone was with her, it was on silent.
Ella sniffed near the doorframe and couldn’t smell anything. Not that that meant much. In a closed apartment a body mightn’t stink for a couple of days.
She crossed the landing to Number 7. This door did have a peephole, but it was dark. She rapped on the wood and again got no reply.
She headed down the stairs. The man stood in his open doorway.
‘Are the ladies okay?’ he asked.
‘Have a good evening,’ she said.
Down on the street, full night had fallen. She heard the flap and screech of bats in the trees as she walked back to her car, and got in to pick up the binoculars once more. The curtains were still open, and the same low light shone in the windows of Number 8, casting the same motionless shadow from the same light
fitting. She lowered the binoculars and rubbed her face with one hand. Miriam Holder could be there, completely still and quiet, resisting the urge to look out the window and see who her caller might have been. Or she could’ve gone out for the night, leaving the light on for when she got back. Or she could’ve gone away and left the light on for security – or because she was in such a hurry that
she forgot to turn it off. Or she could be dead on the floor. But whichever it was, there was nothing more Ella could do tonight.
Her mobile rang. The screen showed Callum’s name. She took a deep breath. ‘Hey.’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m calling to apologise.’
She leaned on the wheel. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I was an idiot last night. It’s all been so strange, and I thought I was dealing
with it, but obviously that’s not true. So I wanted to say I’m sorry, but also ask if you’d like to come over tonight. I finish at eight. I could cook you a late dinner and apologise properly.’
‘That could work,’ she said.
‘Is nine, nine thirty too late? And I’m in Cammeray.’ He gave an address. ‘That’s not too far?’
It was almost seven now, and she was starving but could wait.
She calculated how long it would take to drive back into the city then over the bridge and east to Cammeray, and knew she still had time for her next job. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Great,’ he said.
‘I’ll see you then,’ she said, and hung up with a smile and a feeling like a little butterfly stretching hopeful wings in her stomach.
*
Jane panted up to the room to find the parents
alone on the balcony. She pushed between them to see Alex sliding sideways on his butt across the roof and Rebecca starting to slump down beyond him.
Oh Jesus, Alex.
Blood throbbed in the bruises on her face, but the rest of her was cold and clammy. She leaned over the railing with the rope in her hand, but didn’t dare break Alex’s concentration. He’d stripped his gloves off and his
bare fingers gripped the edges of the tiles. She held her breath. He reached Rebecca and grabbed her by the upper arm, and she said something Jane didn’t catch.
‘It’s okay,’ Alex said to her. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
The compassion and anxiety in his voice brought a lump to Jane’s throat.
Keep it together.
She started tying knots in the rope. One loop at this end, one loop at the other.
The leaves of a nearby tree waved in her peripheral vision but she wouldn’t look. Down on the street stood the ambulance, and some gawkers who’d asked her what was happening and been ignored. The parents wept. She couldn’t hear any sirens. Where were the fucking cops and fire brigade?
The rope was ready. She threw one end around herself and fed the rest of the rope through the loop so it
made a slipknot around her hips, thinking briefly of the spotting that was still going on, then passed the rope between the railings and gathered it up in her hands. As long as Alex could hold onto his end, she’d hold onto hers. If it killed her.
Rebecca was weeping. Alex was trying to hold her and inch his way back across the roof at the same time. A plastic-wrapped bandage popped from
his pocket and rolled down the roof, bounced over the gutter and fell. The gawkers on the street made a startled sound.
‘Alex,’ Jane hissed, the rope ready.
He looked over and nodded, set his feet then held out a shaking hand. Jane tossed the rope and it fell in loops across his shoulder. Rebecca moaned in his other arm. Alex grasped the rope and turned towards her, trying to tie her
in, trying to tie them together or loop it around them and somehow make them safe.
Jane couldn’t quite believe any of it was real. The sky was right there at eye level and making it hard to breathe. She held onto the rope as Alex struggled on the other end. There were still no sirens in earshot.
Alex slipped and slid down a couple of tiles and the mother shrieked.
Jane blinked
back tears of fear and anguish and stepped out of the loop of rope. She stuffed it into the father’s hands and climbed over the railing.
*
Alex could feel Rebecca start to slide out of his grasp. She was slippery with sweat and blood, and she’d passed out again so was a dead weight in his arms. He tightened his grip and pressed his boots against the tiles, but the surface was smooth
and steep. The rope stretched across his chest, and he’d wrapped it around her upper arm but hadn’t been able to tie it off, so if she started to fall it would simply unfurl and let her go.
Jane crouched on the tiles between him and the balcony, the rope over her back, her breathing fast and loud, sheer terror on her face. One hand gripped the mother’s, the other was outstretched towards
him. He was close enough to see the creases in her palm, but couldn’t do anything about grasping it because it was taking everything he had to hold onto Rebecca.
‘Grab me,’ Jane said.
He didn’t answer. He was thinking about the rope, about how to tie it off, and how to do so when he couldn’t use his hands. His left was gripping the bloody waistband of her tracksuit pants and his right
held her right arm across his body. He hadn’t been able to get any dressings on her arms, because he couldn’t hold her and bandage her at the same time, and that meant she was still bleeding. He could feel it soaking into his uniform trousers. He looked at Jane’s hand, so close and yet so far.
He slipped another inch down the roof. He was icy cold with sweat and fear. Rebecca’s breathing
was becoming laboured.
A siren wailed in the far, far distance.
He could hear Jane saying something. Behind her, the parents sobbed.
He stared up at the early stars, barely visible in the blue and purple sky. He thought of Mia at home, texting her friends or listening to music and doodling when she should be doing her homework. He remembered the look on her face when he’d pretended
to grab the Slushie, the bright feeling he’d had that things would be okay.
He slipped another inch. The gutter was just beyond his boots now. It looked flimsy. Gutters usually were, being built for rain and a few leaves, not the combined weight of a man and a girl.
I am not going to lose this one too.
Gently, gently, he lifted his left leg and hooked it around Rebecca’s right.
Another inch down. Jane and the parents gasped.
He planted his boots and held his breath. He adjusted his grip on her slick right arm, his fingers digging in close to her armpit, then released his hold on her waistband. The loop at the end of the rope lay somewhere between them and he felt around gingerly. He found it, grasped it, eased it out.