Darkest Place (2 page)

‘Tell me about your doors,' Dean said.

They were standing at the French windows, Carly peering cautiously beyond the balcony into the early morning. There was only one police car in the street now. The neighbourhood was asleep, the unrenovated warehouses hulking and dark.

‘Do you usually leave the key in this door?' He pointed at it.

She nodded. ‘So I don't have to go searching for it every time I want to open up.'

‘Do you usually lock it before you go to bed?'

‘I've only been here three nights.'

He raised his eyebrows in a question.

‘I've just moved in.' Two whole days, three nights; not long enough to be home, just the promise of somewhere better.

‘Where were you before?'

‘Out west. North-west really. Past Tamworth.' Eight hours' drive. Another life away.

He glanced around the apartment. ‘Is it just you?'

There was one sofa, a coffee table and a small wrought-iron table with two matching chairs, meant for outdoors but arranged in her dining space. Maybe he thought there was a partner coming with the rest of the furniture. ‘Just me, no baggage.' It was a lie; her baggage was itching under her skin like mites.

‘Did you go out last night?'

‘I walked around the corner to the supermarket in the afternoon. Cooked dinner, watched a DVD and went to bed.' She'd stood on the balcony, too, and toasted her new life. Maybe a little hasty. ‘I locked this door earlier in the night.'

He tried the handle. It was secure but he gave it a shove, testing how hard it might be to force. It didn't budge. ‘Did you check it before we got here?'

‘Was it unlocked?'

‘No. Do you think you might've come over here first? Made sure you were locked in before you called us?'

She hesitated, trying to catch the hazy memory. Remembered she'd thought about the doors when she was staggering on the stairs but her feet had gone the other way. ‘I went straight down the hallway. To wait for you.'

‘Do you leave a key in the front door too?'

‘No, they're in a bowl on the kitchen counter.'

‘Are they still there?'

Had he taken her keys? Carly stumbled in her hurry to find them, clutched the bunch in her palm with relief. Talked as she led the cop down the hall to the door. ‘I didn't turn the deadlock. I thought it was dangerous to lock yourself in, you know, in case there's a fire and you can't find your keys. Besides, there's no handle on the outside, you need the key to get in.'

‘Have you given a key to anyone else?'

‘No.'

‘Is there a chance the door might not have closed properly? Maybe you just swung it and it didn't catch when you came back from the supermarket.'

Did she have her hands full, or … ? She couldn't think that far back now. ‘I don't remember. It's not something that's happened before.'

‘You've only been here three days.' Dean opened the door a little and gave it a light push towards the jamb. There was a soft metal clack as the bolt met the strike plate but when he pulled on the knob, the latch slipped out of the lock again.

Carly sucked in a breath. ‘Shit.' She stared at Dean, then the lock, then back at the cop. ‘I
let
him in?' She reeled away. She was a fucking idiot.

‘Sometimes it happens like that. Offenders buzz random apartments from the security entrance until someone lets them in, then they wander around until they find a door they can open. You're not far from the stairs, maybe he didn't wander too far.'

Carly rubbed hands over her face. She'd let him in and she'd let him touch her.

‘You're okay, Carly. That's the main thing.' Dean signalled his partner. ‘And someone in your home is a serious matter, whether you locked your doors or not. I'm going to log your details now and organise fingerprinting and a check of CCTV before my shift ends.' He paused to glance at the dark expanse of the warehouse beyond her door. ‘Maybe a canvass of your neighbours. And I'll be recommending your case gets handed over to detectives. You should expect a call later today.'

Carly copied his glimpse at the corridor. ‘What if he's still in the building?'

‘The building has been searched and there's been a troop of cops through here tonight. That kind of thing usually scares an offender off.' Dean's partner moved between them into the quiet gloom.

Carly lowered her voice. ‘What if he lives here?'

Dean made a doubtful face. ‘Is there someone you can call?'

‘No.'

‘A family member? A friend?'

‘I don't know anyone in Newcastle.'

‘What about your neighbours?'

She hadn't met them yet. She'd barely spoken to anyone since she'd moved in – and she wasn't about to introduce herself at four o'clock in the morning and ask if she could camp on their sofa. ‘No, there's no need to wake anyone.'

Dean produced a business card. ‘This is my mobile number. Call if you're worried. I'm working until nine but I keep my phone on during the day.' He was through the door by the time he'd finished, held out a hand to shake. It was warm and firm and calm, everything Carly wasn't. ‘Lock your doors and try to relax, okay?'

 

Carly toggled the deadlock back and forth, gave it a firm tug then pressed her back to the door. Held up her hands and eyed the twitching and jerking of her fingers: her baggage was trembling and breathless inside her.

She didn't need to hide it now, so she let it carry her away, long strides down the hallway and through the living room, unlocking and re-locking the balcony door, keeping the keys in her fist as she moved about. Restless, fearful, searching. She didn't know what she what she was looking for, only that a man had made his way through the
apartment to her bedside without waking her. He could have been here for hours.

Wishing she had more lights to switch on, she lifted the cushions on the sofa, looked in the kitchen cupboards, the half bathroom. Then up in the loft: under the bed, in the ensuite, inside the wardrobe. There was nothing except the anxious apprehension crawling under her skin.

She couldn't go back to bed. She was repulsed by the thought of him in her loft, and couldn't risk lying still when she was like this. Hauling at the sheets as though they were infested, she tossed them over the rail for washing later. She wanted a shower to scrub off the memory of him but was scared he'd come back when she was wet and naked, so she stalked the apartment instead. Tired but wakeful, drained but hyper, turning on the telly, flicking aimlessly through the channels, shifting from the sofa to the kitchen counter to the wall of checkerboard glass that looked out onto the balcony.

A cup of tea kept her still for fifteen minutes. Another one made her doze fitfully for ten. At six forty, she stood at the windows and watched the sun lighten the sky, her body telling her she needed to be outside, pounding a path. Walking had been her physical and mental therapy for so long, it was the first thing her body craved when the agitation started.

She zipped her mobile and keys into the pockets of a jacket and ran the four flights of zigzag stairs to the foyer, her breath steaming in the frosty air when she hit the street. She followed the route she'd taken both previous mornings, a flat, five-minute walk through the old industrial neighbourhood – long strides, arms pumping, focusing on walking, not thinking, like she'd done for years. By the time she saw the harbour, she was puffing hard.
When she reached the restaurants on the boardwalk her legs felt like lead weights and her bones were aching. Not from exertion, not in twenty minutes, but from the effort to keep the itching, scrabbling anxiety at bay. Freaking out could be exhausting, she reminded herself. Only halfway to the headland, she gave up punishing herself and ordered a cappuccino at the last cafe in the row.

She'd been there twice; it had gas heaters out front and a brew that made her blood flow. Today, she sat at a table in the cold, a warm cup between her palms, watching a tugboat rock and roll in the wake of a container ship and trying to talk herself to calmness.

It wasn't about her, she told herself. She'd paid for her sins. She couldn't change the past but she could begin again. It was why she was here. Why she'd walked away from everything she knew, the small town where her guilt and pain were part of the collective memory. Where every day was a reminder of what she'd done and who she'd been.

‘Perfect morning for soaking up C's and D's,' a waiter said as he collected her cup.

‘C's and D's?'

‘Caffeine and vitamin D, essential for good winter health. I'm Reuben, by the way. I'm here every morning.' He dropped the newspaper from under his arm onto Carly's table. ‘Stay as long as you like, we're having a quiet one today.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Another coffee?'

Carly glanced at the path back, not ready to return. ‘Yes, please.' Her lovely apartment in the renovated warehouse was meant to be inspirational, a metaphor for her own renewal. But the image wasn't so appealing now. Yes,
it was her fault the door was unlocked – that didn't change the fact that someone had pushed it open and walked in. All the way to her bedside. Someone who had snuck through the security entrance, or someone from another apartment. Not your average
Oh look, that door's not closed properly
neighbour but a man who saw it and took advantage. A creepy guy she lived with.

The warehouse looked like a warehouse on the outside: red brick, flat facade, the peaks and troughs of a sawtooth roof. Old, industrial, ugly. It was the inside that had sold itself to Carly.

Walking through the dim hush of the foyer, her runners making soft squelching sounds on the polished floors, she stopped in a pool of sunlight and tipped her face to the ceiling.
This
was what had sold her before she'd even seen the apartment.

Five storeys of eighty-year-old warehouse: original timbers, the floors stacked like the layers of an enormous cake around a huge square of open space. It'd been a bond store, holding goods for import and export, anything from mine machinery to packaged food, the stuff shuffled around by cranes, up and down through the centre of the building. Now, with the machinery gone, the hollow middle became a massive atrium that looked straight up to vast sheets of glass in the sawtooth ceiling – and the sky looked back, filling the shaft with a cascade of natural light. Staircases zigzagged upwards, suspended walkways connected the landings, and a forest of old timber columns
still supported the first floor. Standing at the bottom, Carly felt like she was at the base of a labyrinth.

‘The light is fascinating, isn't it?'

The voice came from behind her, and as Carly turned, pushing the lethargy and headache to one side, she reminded herself that she had no past here, she could be who she wanted. An older woman was sitting on a bench near the lift. She'd been there yesterday, back straight, well dressed, observing the comings and goings like a gatekeeper. Carly wondered if she was the first branch in the warehouse grapevine – and whether she'd heard about the police arrival during the night.

‘Yes, beautiful,' Carly said.

‘I had to argue for this seat to be installed, but it was worth it, and not just for old ladies like me to rest.' She shuffled awkwardly to the edge of the seat, placing her feet carefully, knocking a lumpy grocery bag to the floor. Carly skipped a few steps through the shadows to help, then stopped, warned off by the determined hand the woman held up. ‘Thank you, but while I can still manage my shopping without assistance, I intend to do so.'

Carly watched the woman's painstaking progress, noticing sensible walking shoes under nice trousers, the white blouse and red blazer, a chunk of dark blue rock at her throat. When she was on her feet, Carly skirted around her and pressed the button for the lift.

‘Are you waiting for the elevator?' the woman asked. ‘Or assuming I can't press the button myself?'

It was headmistress condescension mixed with old lady uppity, and Carly couldn't tell if the woman was actually incensed or it was her usual manner of speech. But she saw the wince on her lined face as she leaned on a walking stick and figured she deserved some leeway.

‘I'll ride with you, if that's okay,' Carly said.

The woman took a moment to assess her before hobbling into the cab, claiming a place at the control panel as though making a point. She lit up the button for the second level then looked at Carly.

‘Four, please.'

‘So you're our new resident.'

She'd been discussed already? ‘Yes. I moved in on Monday.'

‘The east wall, I believe.'

‘That's right.'

‘You have a harbour view.'

Maybe she hadn't heard about the police. ‘A slice of it. And I can see the tops of some yachts.'

‘The marina. I don't have that pleasure. I'm on the north wall, where we enjoy the sunshine through winter.' The woman tipped her head back and looked at Carly through the bottom of her glasses. ‘And where have you come from?'

‘Out west.'

‘Do you have family here?'

‘No. I don't know anyone.'

‘Are you here for work?'

Was she writing a report? ‘No, I'm enrolled at the TAFE campus. I start next week.'

‘I see.' The lift jolted to a stop. ‘Do you read?'

Carly figured she wasn't asking if she was literate. ‘Fiction, yes.'

As she stepped out, the woman held a gnarled hand to one door to keep it open. ‘I host a small book club for residents. Members are usually required to read the selected title but for July we are celebrating the life of Charles Dickens. Our next meeting is on Tuesday evening. If you've read Dickens, you're welcome to join us.'

A part of Carly wanted to break out a goofy smile but she kept it cautious and polite. ‘Thank you. I'd like to.' She hadn't read Dickens since school but she had a week to rectify that.

‘Apartment 109. I'll expect you at seven fifteen sharp. I'm Elizabeth Jennings.' She held her bony hand out to shake.

‘Lovely to meet you, Elizabeth. I'm Carly Townsend, apartment 419.' If she could be who she wanted here, she'd be Carly.

When the doors had closed and all Carly could see was her own reflection in the stainless steel, she said, ‘Day Three of her new life and Charlotte decides to be Carly, who meets a neighbour and receives an invitation.' She grinned then. ‘And Carly laughs to herself as she rides the lift to her new apartment.'

 

Her moment of joy slipped away as the elevator opened on the fourth floor. On the other side of the atrium, a man was at her front door. Palm on the wall, head lowered like he was listening.

She hesitated outside the cab, agitation sparking in her belly. He must have heard the lift because he turned, and she realised then it was her neighbour. They hadn't met, but Carly had seen him leaving his apartment once and yesterday he'd passed her at the top of the stairs with a tight-lipped nod. Last night, as she stood on her balcony with her glass of red, she'd spotted his battered leather jacket rounding the corner at the end of the street. Hands jammed into the pockets, slight limp, a tense stalk.

Now, as he started across the suspended walkway towards her, his forceful stride made her want to call the
lift back. She held her ground as he got closer, measuring him up against the shape beside her bed.
Tall enough, not fat, man-shaped.
He was all of those things. So was a quarter of the population.

His first words: ‘I saw cops at your place during the night.'

Was it a complaint? Maybe it'd been him and he wasn't happy.

‘You all right?' he asked.

It was concern? ‘I had a break-in. I'm fine, thanks.'

His eyes flicked over her as though he was making sure, then he seemed to relax. He wasn't so scary, then. He was wiry and tanned. If he'd been thirty years older, she might have called him grizzled.

‘We're neighbours, right?' Carly asked.

‘Yeah, sorry. I'm Nate.' He said it as though he'd just realised the rush across the walkway was a little weird. He held out a hand.

She felt the rasp of tough, work-roughened skin. ‘Carly.'

‘A break-in? And it took them until after three to get here?'

‘Oh, no, it was during the night. They were here in a few minutes.'

‘Someone broke in while you were there?'

‘Yes.'

‘You sure you're all right?'

Tired and freaked out, but she gave him her standard answer. ‘Yeah, sure.' She'd spent thirteen years enduring in silence whatever was thrown at her. She had no right to complain – she was alive, her friends were dead.

‘How did he get in?'

‘I might've left the front door open.' A shrug, making light of her mistake. ‘Not wide open. Just not closed
properly. The police thought he might've been buzzed in downstairs and wandered around until he found an open door.'

Dark blue eyes watched her a moment. ‘Are your locks okay? I could take a look at them.'

A prickle at the back of her neck: she didn't know him, she didn't want him in her apartment. ‘They're fine. It was user error.'

A nod, a pause, like maybe there was more, then he was walking away, heading for the stairs.

 

The police came in the afternoon. A forensics officer first, who Carly watched from across the living room as he bent over the doorknob on the balcony, wondering if someone else had done the same thing twelve hours earlier.

Two detectives arrived as Carly was seeing him out. A tall, broad-shouldered woman called Anne Long and a shorter, younger man introduced as Elliot. Carly offered to make coffee, needing something to cut through the lingering fuzziness in her head before they started asking questions.

She showed them the locks and the loft while the kettle was boiling, climbing the stairs to her bedroom like she weighed three tonnes. The energy low that had hit on the walk had hung around, making her listless and dozy. She'd had things to do – sorting cupboards, unpacking boxes – and had ended up doing none of them. At other times, when the agitation had been bad, she'd gone for days before exhaustion wore it out.

Carly swallowed a couple of painkillers while she waited for the cafetiere to brew.

‘What's that you're taking?' Anne asked.

The tone was polite but Carly had heard it before. ‘Paracetamol.' She said it slowly, clearly, an edge to her voice. ‘I've got a
headache
.'

The woman lifted a hand. ‘Just making sure you're okay.'

There was barely enough furniture for them all to sit, Carly and Anne on the sofa, Elliot on a chair that he carried over from the wrought-iron outdoor setting.

‘Nice place.' Anne glanced around, getting settled.

Nice? It looked like something from a glossy magazine with Paris or New York in the captions. Exposed brick, soaring ceilings, timber floors, stainless-steel kitchen, industrial staircase. Even today it could start a smile at the corner of Carly's mouth. She owned it, she lived here, she'd done it. ‘Thanks.'

With Anne asking questions and Elliot taking notes, Carly talked them through the events of the early morning. When she was done, Anne took a moment to flip through the pages of a notebook she took from her bag.

‘Constable Quentin said you were unable to give a detailed description of your intruder.' She read from her notes. ‘You said he was tall enough to bend over the bed, thin-ish, not fat. Possibly wearing black clothes, possibly a hoodie and balaclava.' She looked up. ‘I imagine you were pretty shaken up last night. Would you like to add anything to that now?'

‘I wish I could but like I told Dean – Constable Quentin – it was dark. Really dark.'

Anne's lips tightened briefly. It made heat rise to Carly's cheeks.

‘I think the clothes and the mask are more than a possible,' Carly added, wanting to do better. ‘I mean, I've been thinking about what I saw and there was definitely something over his head.' She made the arch shape over
her own head again. ‘I don't know it if was a
hoodie
, like on a sweatshirt. It might've been a jacket or a coat, but there was a hood.'

‘You saw the hood?'

‘I saw the
shape
of a hood. Also his face was black. A balaclava is the only explanation for that. So I'd definitely say a hood and balaclava.'

The detective said nothing for long seconds, taking her time to finish the remains of her coffee. ‘And you're certain it was a man?'

‘Yes. Absolutely.'

‘I'm wondering about that, Carly. The intruder was close enough to breathe on you but you didn't actually
see
the hood and mask. Yet you're sure it was a man.'

‘Yes.' It was the only thing she was sure of.

‘There's no chance it
might
have been a woman?'

‘No.'

‘Can you tell me why you think that?'

Carly folded her arms, irritated at the scepticism in the detective's voice.

‘See, it's just' – Anne held up a palm – ‘I've got big hands and I'm tall. I've been mistaken for a man once or twice.'

The detective beside her spoke for the first time since they'd sat down. ‘She's being modest. She's mistaken for a man all the time.'

The two cops exchanged a chuckle. ‘He's just jealous.' She rolled her eyes at Carly. ‘So do you think there's any chance it might've been a woman?'

If the joking was a tactic to make Carly reconsider, it worked. Her mind rewound, remembering the heart pounding, the ragged breathing and the shadow looming over her face. She pressed her spine into the sofa as though
he was there now and she was cowering. ‘The smell of him, his breath …' She shook her head, rubbed her arms. ‘The hand, it was big, yes, but the way he touched me – it was rough and it was a caress. My ex-husband used to do that.' She glanced away, annoyed she'd thought of Adrian. Annoyed her conviction was wavering. ‘I suppose it could've been a woman but I thought it was a man.'

‘Okay. Thanks, Carly.'

She saw the
Let's go
look Anne shot at her partner and spoke up before either of them could move. ‘Should I be worried about my neighbours?'

‘Do you think it was a neighbour?'

‘If he pushed open my front door, he was already in the building. That could mean a neighbour.'

‘Okay, look.' Anne reached to the coffee table, laid her notebook across the top of her handbag. ‘I will tell you there have been other break-ins here.'

‘In my apartment?' Carly glanced at the French windows. Why hadn't anyone told her?
Before
she bought it?

Anne held up a palm like a stop sign. ‘I meant at the warehouse, not
your
apartment. And not recently. The last incidents were almost twelve months ago.'

Okay. Right. ‘Incidents? Plural? Was anyone hurt?'

‘No. No assault involved. There were some items listed as stolen. A couple of residents reported seeing the intruder.'

‘In their bedrooms?'

Anne answered slowly, as though Carly might startle. ‘Yes, there were some reports of a person in the bedroom.'

Oh geez. She interlaced her fingers, clasped her hands tight together. ‘Did he …
touch
them?'