Switchback Stories (23 page)

The question was aimed at no-one in particular. The coroner had been visiting the senior detective’s office, inquiring about progress on the case. Max sensed that, on a subconscious level, Gordon Stevens was reliving all those traumatic days, ten years earlier, when his daughter had died.

Carrie Stevens’s murder had never been solved.

Both men looked up as young Constable Ryan Micaleff appeared at the door. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said to Max, ‘but the desk sergeant wanted me to let you know we have a situation just outside the station.’

They went to the front of the building and out onto the footpath. Max had half-expected this might happen, but he hadn’t expected the numbers. He reckoned there were close to forty people there – men, women and children of all ages, but mostly women aged thirty plus. They were crowded into the small reserve that stood at the centre of the town, directly opposite. The people were clustered into groups of four or five, some sitting, some standing. Gordon remained behind, watching with interest, as Micaleff accompanied Max over to the park.

Max recognised the woman standing closest to the station side, at the head of one of the larger groups. But, even if he hadn’t seen her photo in one of Gordon Stevens’s news clippings, Max would have noticed her.

Celia Rossington was an attractive woman, with long, thick red hair, strong features and a wonderfully vivacious smile. She looked younger than he expected. She saw the detective as he approached and came towards him, making a point of greeting him first.

‘Senior Detective-Sergeant Crichton, I presume?’ her voice was throaty, commanding, warm.

She’d obviously done her homework before arriving in Pioneer Hill, Max thought. ‘That’s right.’ They shook hands. ‘And I know of you, Ms. Rossington, by reputation.’

Her manner became reflective. ‘Not a reputation any mother wants.’

Max nodded his understanding. ‘I appreciate the concern that you and your friends have,’ he said, ‘but it would be better for all if you were to go home. This is a small town, not much room here. And everything that can be done is being done.’

‘Has the girl been identified?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You’re aware of our success rate, Detective-Sergeant?’ There was nothing reproachful in her tone. Quite the opposite. A casual observer would think we’re old friends, Max thought.

‘I am.’

‘Then I think we’ll hang around for a little while yet.’

It was Crichton’s role, as a police officer, to discourage large groups gathering in public on occasions like these. However, secretly, he welcomed anything that might help in identifying the girl.

‘Won’t be long before it’s dark,’ Celia Rossington stated, ‘and I think we can expect some company from the media. I’ve seen to it that word is about.’ As if on cue, a TV news van from the regional network pulled into the street.

Max stifled a smile. ‘I see what you mean.’ He was on his way back across to the station with Micaleff, when he encountered Donna McEvoy.

‘I’ve heard of this Rossington woman,’ Donna said, ‘but I never expected her to turn up here, in Pioneer Hill. Wow, what a story.’

Max said, ‘What do you know about these candle people? I gather this is the fourth or fifth time they’ve gathered near a crime scene investigation.’

‘More, actually. The first few times only received very small and scattered media attention. It’s an incredible story. Celia Rossington is a widow and the mother of a murder victim. Her daughter was travelling in North America when she died. But she’d been stripped of all ID. As she wasn’t in regular contact while travelling, it might have been a very long time before she was identified if it wasn’t for a local youth group. One of the kids was the son of the district’s coroner. The group held a week-long candle vigil for the unidentified girl. The local paper ran the story and – as luck would have it – the article was picked up for syndication by one of the large international news groups there. The article also carried an artist’s picture of the girl and when it ran here in Australia, Celia Rossington saw it.’

‘So she was able to identify her daughter,’ said Micaleff. ‘Was the killer caught?’

‘Yes. Knowing her identity, the police were able to trace her last hours and, as a result, made an arrest.’

In his office later, Max related the full story to Gordon Stevens. ‘Celia Rossington never forgot how those kids in the States helped her. Then, about eighteen months ago, she heard about the unidentified body of a young murder victim in Sydney. She wanted to help, just as she’d been helped. So she and a few friends held their own candlelight vigil at the scene and alerted the media.’

‘I see,’ said Gordon, ‘and it grew from there.’

As if to greet the candle people, the chilly weather disappeared. Warm air swept in from the west, bringing with it the return of birdsong and the fresh scent of flowers. Night fell and the visitors rolled out their blankets and sat beneath the stars, in large groups, each and every one of them with a candle.

‘I never realized how special something this simple would look,’ Donna observed, ‘or how moving.’ She was watching from the police station steps, with Max and others.

New crews milled about and came and went. Celia Rossington had been granting interviews throughout. Her words, overheard by Max from Donna’s interview session, stuck in his mind: ‘Our vigil generates news coverage these cases don’t always get. As a result, the chances increase that someone, somewhere will recognise the victim. That’s all we can achieve. After that, it’s still up to the police to bring about justice.’

Many of the locals had gathered about the park to witness the vigil. Max saw the newsagent, George Rush, standing nearby with Angela, his wife of twenty years, and Gordon and Janet Stevens.

‘How are you holding up, George?’ Max asked, strolling over.

‘I’m fine, Max.’

‘He’s a liar, Max,’ Angela protested. ‘He’s been getting the shakes. Keeps reliving the moment he found that poor girl.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ the newsagent insisted. ‘But how about this, eh?’ With a sweeping gesture he indicated the people in the park. The soft glow from more than 100 candle flames flickered over the faces of the visitors, creating a calm, magical ambience to the mood of the night.

‘You wouldn’t think something as beautiful as this could come from something so tragic,’ said Janet Stevens, clutching her husband’s hand tightly. She was a small woman with expressive eyes and an air of fragility. ‘Of all those candles out there,’ she added, ‘I wish just one could’ve been for my Carrie.’

Gordon hugged her, and they moved a little closer to the vigil.

After a while, Angela Rush turned to Max. ‘You think this might help you identify that poor lass?’

‘I very much hope it will.’

• • •

Max thought of that reply forty eight hours later when the phone call came through from Sister Margaret Melliford. She’d seen a news report about the candle people arriving in Pioneer Hill and solved the mystery with just a few short sentences.

‘I’m afraid that I must ask you to come here and make an official identification of the body,’ Max said.

There were two people Max felt he should confide in straight away. The first was the coroner. The second was Celia Rossington.

‘Her name is Rebecca Featherstone,’ he told her. ‘The reason she couldn’t be identified locally was because she was a student at a girl’s boarding school interstate. The Sisters Of The Faith College in northern Victoria. The Head Sister there saw our police drawing of the girl on the news report.’

‘What was this girl-Rebecca-doing here?’

‘Not certain. But I’d say we’re dealing with a runaway.’

‘A runaway? And the sisters from this school didn’t know she was missing?’

‘No. It’s school holiday time, and the school believed Rebecca was spending the vacation in England with her parents. They’re living there at the moment.’

‘And now it’s been discovered there was no such arrangement for her to join her folks overseas,’ Celia guessed.

‘That’s right. But we don’t know why she misled the sisters or what she was doing up here in New South Wales.’

Celia flicked back a strand of her red hair and stared off, past Max, as though gazing into the subtle depths of a wall painting somewhere behind him. ‘I’d say there was a boy involved.’

Sister Margaret Melliford arrived the next day and identified the body. She also informed Max that, after contacting some of Rebecca’s friends earlier, she had learned that Rebecca had a secret boyfriend, who’d moved to a place somewhere on the Queensland border.

‘Doesn’t seem much doubt then,’ Gordon Stevens said to Max after the Sister had left. ‘Rebecca had decided to try hitch-hiking, intending to visit this boyfriend – something neither the school nor her parents would’ve allowed. So where do you go from here?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ Max moved from behind his desk and scrutinized the New South Wales road map that covered most of one wall. ‘Your autopsy showed Rebecca was killed elsewhere, then dumped in Pioneer Hill. Also that she’d been dead just half an hour, placing her death at approximately 6.45am. Quite early.’

‘Correct.’ Gordon leaned forward, intrigued.

‘We now know the girl was hitch-hiking,’ Max continued, ‘and that she’d left the school in Victoria the previous morning. We can assume she’d been on the road, in one or more cars, all of that day.’

Gordon nodded in agreement.

Now Max’s finger pointed to the place on the wall map where the main road passed through the outskirts of Pioneer Hill. He traced his finger to the spot nearby, where Rebecca Featherstone’s body had been found.

‘She’d been dead just half an hour and she’d been travelling north from the direction of Victoria, which means at the time of her murder she would’ve been around here.’ His finger followed a trail to an area called Cromwell Junction.

‘The Junction,’ said Gordon. ‘There’s a rest and refuelling spot for truckers there.’

‘Yes. And not a lot more apart from an all-night café and a hotel with rooms for rent.’

Gordon rose and began to pace, continually looking over at the spot on the wall map. ‘You think she stayed overnight at the pub, then rose at dawn to hitch a ride from one of the passing truckers?’

• • •

A short while later Max had an answer to his question. A phone call to the manager of the Cromwell Junction Hotel had established that Rebecca had stayed there, under her own name, on the night before her death. And that she’d checked out at six in the morning. Not too far away, on the road north, she’d fallen victim to her killer.

None of the employees of the hotel, the café or the petrol station had seen Rebecca getting into a vehicle on that fateful morning. Now it was time to start playing long shots and try to narrow the field from there.

Max headed out to Cromwell Junction. Gordon Stevens insisted on accompanying him.

They obtained copies of the receipts given to all the drivers – of trucks and other vehicles – who’d paid for their petrol that day with company accounts or credit cards. There was no guarantee the killer had filled his tank – or, if he had, that he’d used an account. But if he had …

On the first half of the drive back, Max and Gordon were silent. Max’s mind was buzzing. He was surprised then, to find that every now and then his mind cleared. And when it did, his thoughts turned to Celia Rossington. Her magnetic eyes and wide smile seemed to invade his thoughts.

‘Penny for ‘em,’ Gordon said, noticing the mix of emotions showing on the detective’s face.

‘Something isn’t adding up here,’ said Max. ‘If there’s a truckie out there who’s killing girl hitch-hikers, then surely the last place he’d pick up a potential victim is from a well-known truckie stop, a place where’s he’s likely to be a regular visitor.’

Gordon spoke the thought that was in both men’s minds. ‘Well of course, there are other travellers, particularly tourists, on that road. If the killer was one of them, they may not have purchased anything at all at Cromwell Junction. And they could be anywhere by now.’

Back at the station, Max arranged for every one of the many names on the account receipts to be run through the police computers. First, he was looking for any of the names that had previous police records. And he’d be asking police units across the country to contact each and every one of these known customers and interview them.

The credit card purchases showed the time of purchase on the receipt. Those who’d been there early on the morning in question would be asked if they’d seen a young woman getting into a vehicle.

Constable Micaleff appeared in Max’s doorway. ‘Excuse me, Senior. Ms. Rossington is here, asking to see you.’

‘Send her in, Ryan.’

Max felt a rush of adrenalin as she entered the office, dressed in a smart, casual, knee-length skirt and matching slimline blazer. ‘I was wondering if you’d managed to contact the parents?’ she asked.

‘I was about to call you,’ Max said. ‘The parents were notified this morning and they’re on their way back from the UK now. We’ve only just released Rebecca Featherstone’s name to the media.’

As he spoke of the murdered girl’s parents, Max noted the look of anguish that passed across Celia’s face. Only someone like her, the parent of a murdered child, Max thought, could even begin to understand what the Featherstones were now going through.

‘Do you have children, Mr Crichton?’

‘A son. He’s a young man now, attending uni in Sydney. Living with his mother.’ An old sadness passed across his eyes. ‘We’ve been divorced a long time.’

Celia nodded. Then, after a brief pause, ‘I wanted to thank you for staying out of our way here. You wouldn’t believe it, but in most of the places we visit to hold a vigil, we get a lot of interference from the local police. Urging us to move on, watching us like hawks, quite frankly being a damn nuisance, despite the fact our vigils do happen to help.’

‘We can be like that,’ Max conceded. ‘Police are creatures of habit and we’ve been programmed to expect trouble from large groups in public. I guess that-’

‘Old habits die hard,’ she said.

‘Something like that.’