Tell the Truth (11 page)

‘We're on it,' Rowan said.

Paris closed up the back, then got in the passenger side and clipped in her seatbelt. Rowan started the engine. Other students from her class were already driving, she'd seen them around the city, but Rowan hadn't said anything about when she might start. She pulled on latex gloves as Rowan hit the lights and siren, and let out a secret breath, preparing for what was coming.

‘What do we do first?' Rowan said.

‘Check for danger. Check patient's response, and their airway, breathing and circulation.'

‘Good. Then what?'

They flew past cars, shops, pedestrians. The reflection of the blue and red beacons flashed in the windows. Up ahead, people were waiting for them, listening for the sound of the siren, maybe doing CPR, maybe not doing CPR when they should, maybe glancing sideways at a moaning drunk – you never knew what you were going to with a collapse call. They would all stare at her and Rowan as they marched in with all their gear and took charge. Her heart skipped a beat. She pressed her fingers to her throat. If she had a heart attack of her own she wouldn't have to look after anyone else.

Rowan glanced over at her. ‘Okay?'

‘Yep.' She faked a problem with her uniform collar. How idiotic to think such things, to be such a baby. She'd trained for this, and even in just six weeks on the road she'd seen a lot. Chances were this would be a drunk or a drug overdose, and she knew what to do with either. In theory, at least. She snugged her gloves a little tighter.

‘Then what?' Rowan asked again.

‘Treat specific conditions.'

‘Give me some examples.'

They were approaching the McDonald's now, siren still wailing, tourists looking their way, and, oh god, there was a staff member standing on the street waving at them.

‘Examples,' Rowan repeated.

She couldn't think. She grasped the seatbelt, ready to release the clip and get out. There was a system: the treating officer took the Oxy-Viva and went in first, the driver followed with the drug box and monitor/defibrillator. She'd sling the Viva over her shoulder and walk in like she knew exactly what she was doing. She wouldn't have that frightened look on her face, and she wouldn't turn back to make sure that Rowan was close behind. Her voice wouldn't shake when she asked the right questions of the patient and the bystanders, they wouldn't glance at her then give the answers to Rowan instead, and she wouldn't then sit in the back of the ambulance beside the stretchered patient on the way to hospital wondering what the hell to say.

The waver met her at the door. He was young, maybe seventeen, and trembling. ‘She looks really bad.'

She hoisted the Viva a little higher and nodded. She heard Rowan shut the ambulance door. ‘Where is she?' Strong confident tone. So far so good.

‘This way.'

She followed him inside. The aircon was cold, the air smelled of frying, the people eating hotcakes and McMuffins watched her walk by. Two young female staff members knelt either side of a twentyish woman who lay propped against the counter. Against the centre of the counter, with lines of people continuing to order food on either side, and the eaters all watching with interest.

Paris ran through the procedure in her head. Danger: everything looks safe. Response: the woman was conscious, looking at her from frightened eyes. Airway, breathing and circulation: her skin was pale, she was visibly sweaty, and she was breathing quickly. So, all reasonable, but not as good as they should be. No visible wounds, no blood on the floor. Okay.

The patient and the two women were looking at her. She could feel the audience behind her too.
Get a grip!

She put down the Viva and smiled at the patient. ‘Hello. My name's Paris. What happened?' Good. Good start. Strong start.

‘She passed out,' one of the staffers said.

‘Uh-huh. Do you remember that?'

‘Not really,' the patient said. ‘I remember feeling really dizzy, and like I couldn't really breathe, then I woke up here on the floor.'

‘So you felt dizzy, then you passed out.' Trying to think of the possible causes for such a scenario, Paris unzipped the Viva. She saw the sphygmo. Yes. Check the blood pressure.

‘She just folded up and collapsed,' the other staff member said. She squeezed the patient's hand. ‘She was out for a minute or so.'

‘I'm just going to take your blood pressure.' Paris knelt beside the woman, then made herself move closer. During training they'd gone on and on about assessing patients with touch, feeling for deformity and tenderness and what-have-you, but never once mentioned how hard it was to overcome a lifetime of respect for personal space and get right up close to a stranger. She gingerly wrapped the cuff around the woman's clammy arm and inflated it.

Beside her, one hand on the monitor, Rowan cleared his throat.

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Monitor, please.'

He unpacked the leads and attached dots to the ends, then smiled at the patient. ‘Hi, I'm Rowan. What's your name?'

‘Robyn,' she said.

Of course, of course, ask their name. How had she forgotten that? Heat crept up the back of her neck as she stared at the sphygmo dial.

‘One hundred,' she said, so Rowan would know.

‘Diastolic?' he said.

Shit.
She took out her stethoscope, pressed the bell to Robyn's arm and inflated the cuff again.

‘Do you have any medical problems?' Rowan asked Robyn as he ran off a strip of ECG.

‘I've been a bit sick lately,' she said. ‘The doctor said it's a virus. That's all though.'

‘One hundred on sixty-five,' Paris said.

Rowan nodded and held out the ECG. She took it and studied it. She could feel them all waiting. The lines on the paper blurred.
What the fuck came next?

‘Are you still short of breath?' Rowan asked Robyn.

‘A bit,' she said. ‘Not a lot though.'

Double shit.
Paris pulled out the sats monitor and clipped the probe on Robyn's finger, then hooked up an oxygen mask.

‘Ninety-four on room air, ninety-six on O
2
,' she said to Rowan.

But he was still waiting. They were all waiting. She felt like everyone in the place was looking at her, could see the panicked sweat breaking out on her body, the frenzied unspooling in her head. She grasped wildly for a question. ‘Are you, uh, allergic to anything?'

Robyn shook her head.

Paris gave her a big smile. ‘That's great.'

And it was, but now what? She couldn't think. There was some mnemonic about what to ask; she knew it started with allergies, but what came next? The harder she tried to recall it, the blanker her mind became. The only thing she knew for sure was that they were all looking at her and she was failing again. There was no way around it. She was going to have to hand over to Rowan. The embarrassment and humiliation brought a lump to her throat as she looked up at him.

‘How about you get out the glucometer,' he said. ‘Robyn, are you on any medication?'

Medication, of course. That was what came next. And her blood sugar had to be checked because she'd passed out. In a hot cloud of shame Paris took out the little machine and turned it on. What the fuck was wrong with her? How come she could remember all this only after it was pointed out to her? She'd come top of her class, she was going to be a bright shining star. And look, Rowan was talking to Robyn like they were old mates at the same time as he assessed her properly – yet another thing she'd forgotten to do – and now he'd found a swelling on her head from when she'd collapsed.

Paris gritted her teeth and glared down at her hands.
Dreams do come true.

TEN

T
he morning homicide meeting was short, its purpose to get everyone up to speed as quickly as possible on what had been learned overnight then out on the streets working. Tired after a bad sleep during which she'd dreamed about blood trails and bodies facedown in overgrown ditches, Ella gave them the news that the cyclist was a woman, then relayed the rest of what Olivier Tarlington had told them. Detective Danni Yong reported on the continued lack of matching Jane Does in the state hospital system, then went on to information that had come in via the Crime Stoppers hotline. Most of it was the usual irrelevant stuff – calls about people in racing outfits on racing bikes weaving through traffic, mentions of homeless people with bleeding feet in the CBD, allegations about various men in a number of areas of the city who either didn't answer their phones or behaved oddly on Sunday night. None of the names had criminal records or ties to Stacey or James Durham, but they'd been logged anyway. Aadil Hossain said nothing helpful had come up on the Facebook pages, and no ransom or other suspicious calls had been received at the Durham house or on James's mobile. Stacey's had not been turned on.

Dennis assigned the day's tasks with the precision and seriousness of a general going to war, and the detectives nodded while taking notes as if to do the things separately would waste time. They were keen to get going, to find the woman whose picture smiled down on them from the whiteboard. Ella thought of the bodies she'd seen in her dream and wondered if Stacey Durham was lying somewhere like one of them.

*

Ella's and Murray's first stop was Computer Crime, where they found Elizabeth Libke at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. She was a bone-thin woman in her thirties, with pink-framed glasses and pale hair in an angular bob. She sat back in her chair and listened to them.

‘James Durham,' she said thoughtfully.

‘Owns a little computer shop in Strathfield,' Ella said. ‘The tip was apparently about some scam or other. You told him he was in the clear.'

Libke leaned forward to type. She read down the screen. ‘Ah, yes. Mr Outraged. Wanted the whole cavalry looking into who'd made the complaint and wasn't happy when I failed to oblige.'

‘Do you get lots of cases like that?' Murray asked.

‘I've got so many going on I don't have time to scratch myself,' she said. ‘Anonymous tips are often efforts to piss someone off, to harass someone. It was lucky that one even got that much attention.'

‘What did you do with it?' Ella asked.

Libke looked at the screen again. ‘Durham has no record, no issues with ASIC or anything, no credit problem, no traffic offences. I had a talk to him, he gave me access to his computers, I ran a few checks and nothing came up.'

‘How many computers does he have?' Ella said.

‘His personal laptop, two networked desktops at the shop and one at home.'

‘Did you meet his wife?'

‘No. Does she work there?'

‘No, but she has a laptop too.'

‘I had no reason to go into her stuff.' Libke shrugged. ‘Like I said, most anonymous tips are pointless. Shit-stirring.'

‘What did the tip actually say?' Ella asked.

Libke clicked the mouse button. ‘It was a typed letter, addressed to this section, claiming that James Durham of Durham Computers was defrauding his customers.'

‘That's it?' Murray said. ‘No details?'

‘No, and that's another reason we didn't take it too seriously. None of his customers had made complaints. I even contacted a few at random. Some said they'd lost money from their bank accounts being hacked before they'd had him come to get rid of malware and install antivirus software, but otherwise there'd been no problems.'

Ella said, ‘Did he appear to have any thoughts about who was behind it?'

‘No, and I pushed him on it but he seemed clueless.' Her phone started to ring. ‘Is that everything?'

‘Thanks,' Ella said.

Going down in the lift, Murray said, ‘Sounds pretty weak and generic for a complaint. Hard to imagine it could be related.'

Ella nodded. ‘It's a big leap for someone to go from that to abducting his wife.' It didn't mean they wouldn't keep it in mind, though.

Her mobile rang as they crossed the car park, and she sighed when she saw the screen. ‘Hi Mum.'

‘Don't sound so happy,' Netta said. She talked too loudly on the phone and Ella had to hold it away from her ear. ‘Now I know you're busy, but your father said I should check what kind of dessert Callum likes.'

‘Whatever,' Ella said. ‘He's not fussy.'

‘You got that right,' Murray muttered, ducking out of reach.

‘He must have some kind of preference,' Netta said. ‘What about –'

‘Anything is fine,' Ella said. ‘I'm on a case, Mum.'

‘We know. We saw you on the news. Adelina rang and said you look too thin.'

They were still hours from dinner, and it had started already. ‘I have to go.'

‘Make sure you call if you're going to be late.'

‘Bye,' Ella said, and hung up.

‘Trouble in paradise?' Murray said.

‘Smartarse,' she said. ‘Get in the car.'

*

Paris knew from her fellow trainees that usually when the senior officer took over the treating of the patient, he or she continued looking after them in the back of the ambulance on the way to hospital while the trainee drove. Rowan hadn't done that so far in their partnership, and he didn't do it today either, instead motioning for her to climb up after they'd loaded Robyn in, giving her instructions to check the blood pressure again, run another strip from the monitor, and fill in as much of the case sheet as she could.

Paris sat beside Robyn, her face hot, as Rowan shut the back door and got behind the wheel.

Robyn smiled at her. ‘New at this, are you?'

Paris nodded. ‘A few weeks.'

‘You must see some terrible things.' Robyn said it with the usual upwards inflection at the end, almost a question but not quite, the speaker hoping to prompt a graphic telling of those terrible things.

‘All part of the job.' She saw Rowan glance at her in the rear-view and took out the sphygmo. ‘Time to check your blood pressure again.'

At the hospital, Rowan gave the handover to the triage nurse. Once Robyn was off the stretcher and walking to the waiting room, Paris wheeled the stretcher back outside.

Rowan followed, the case sheet folder in his hand. ‘Feel like a chat?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘Do I?'

He sat on the ambulance's back step and motioned for her to join him, but she stayed standing. She looked at the passing traffic, at the blue sky, the pigeons flapping overhead.

‘Do you want to tell me what's going on?' he said.

‘I can't stop thinking about Aunt Stacey.'

‘That's understandable.'

‘I wonder if she's okay, who hurt her, who's got her,' Paris said. ‘Why did it happen?'

‘That's what the police are trying to find out,' Rowan said.

‘Thirty-seven,' the controller called.

Paris hurried to answer. Another job meant another chance to do better, as well as another chance to fail, but it stopped the questions and meant her fear was still a secret.

*

Ella and Murray pulled up outside Durham Computers. It was the middle business of a row of five, with a half-empty parking area and a garden bed dotted with straggly geraniums separating it from the street. Ella looked at the other businesses as she crossed the asphalt. An accountant, a bicycle shop, an aquarium store and a dentist's office. There were no CCTV bubbles attached to the awning that ran the length of the building, and the paintwork on the frontage was in need of a fresh coat.

A buzzer sounded when they pushed open the computer store door, and a young man with an angular face and black-framed glasses emerged from a back room.

‘Detectives Ella Marconi and Murray Shakespeare.' She showed her badge. ‘Is James here?'

‘He's just gone to the bank. He said you might be coming by. I'm Nick Henry.' He extended his hand over the counter. His palm was soft, his grip firm. ‘Do you have any news about Stacey?'

‘Is Simon working today too?' Murray asked.

‘He's on a call-out. So there's no news?'

‘Not yet.'

‘That's a pity.'

The lenses of his glasses caught the light and Ella couldn't see his eyes. She said, ‘How long have you worked for James?'

‘Bit over a year.'

‘So you were here when the anonymous complaint was made?'

‘Yep. James was mega-pissed. The cops found nothing though.'

‘What's your job?' Murray asked.

‘Computer repair mostly. Sometimes we build new systems for people, but usually we're fixing things.'

‘Busy?' Ella said.

He nodded. ‘We do heaps of call-outs to people's houses, because so many of them can't do the most basic things, let alone fix the big ones. We go there and help them, fix the problem, then show them what not to do next time, what to look out for.'

‘Like viruses?' Murray said.

He nodded. ‘Spyware, Trojan horses, worms, keystroke loggers, blended threats, adware, rootkits. You name it, really.'

‘Huh,' Murray said.

Ella knew he had no real clue what the man was talking about. She said, ‘Do you know Stacey?'

‘A little,' Nick said. ‘She comes in to have lunch with James sometimes. I haven't really talked to her much more than saying hi, how are you, though.'

‘When did you see her last?'

‘Monday last week,' he said. ‘She came in for lunch with James, while her car was getting serviced or something. Then she seemed to change her mind and went to the dentist instead.'

‘Instead of lunch?' Ella said.

Nick Henry nodded. ‘I thought it was weird too.'

‘What happened, exactly?' Murray asked.

‘She came in and went out the back where James was working.' Henry motioned towards the rear office. ‘I was here with a customer, so I don't know precisely what happened, but I could hear them talking and then suddenly she came out and went outside. James followed in a bit of a rush, then a few minutes later he came back and said she was at the dentist, and he wasn't going out for lunch after all.'

Ella said, ‘Did you get the impression they were arguing?'

‘It did seem a bit like they were keeping their voices down, like it was softer than if James is on the phone, for instance, but apart from that I couldn't tell you anything about it.'

‘Were you here when she came back?'

‘No, James sent me for my own lunch break, and later I said was she okay and he said yeah, she'd come back and gone to get her car and go home.'

Ella looked at Murray, then at her watch. ‘How far is the bank where James's gone?'

‘Not far. He should be back any minute.'

‘I'm going to the bike shop,' she said to Murray, and went out.

The bike shop smelled of new plastic and oil. A man straightened behind the counter as she approached, one hand at the small of his back. He was in his late fifties, grey hair shaggy on the collar of his polo shirt, a friendly smile on his face.

‘Hi, I'm Mike. Can I help you choose a bike?'

Ella showed her badge, then tilted her head towards the computer shop. ‘I'm investigating a situation involving your neighbour here,' she said, being deliberately vague to see what he would say.

‘Has there been a robbery?'

‘Do they happen often along here?'

‘The aquarium got held up once, this kid waving a knife and demanding turtles, but when Dale said he had none the kid walked out. He was still standing outside when the cops arrived. On drugs apparently.'

‘Uh-huh,' Ella said. ‘Do you know the computer shop staff?'

‘Vaguely. James is the owner, and Nick and Simon work for him. Simon's been in here to fix my computer. I know he has a little girl. He's going to buy her first bike here when she's a bit older.' He smiled.

‘That's all you know?'

He nodded.

‘James's wife is missing,' Ella said, watching his face.

‘Oh no. That's terrible.' Dismay, alarm. ‘That's just awful.'

‘It was on the news last night. You didn't see it?'

‘I don't watch TV,' he said. ‘Except the Tour.'

‘Have you ever met her?'

He shook his head. ‘Can't say I've ever even heard her name.'

Ella took out the photo of Stacey and showed him.

‘Don't recognise her, sorry.'

‘Has there been any trouble around here recently?'

‘Nope.'

‘Anyone hanging about, watching the shop? Anything out of the ordinary?'

‘Not a thing,' he said. ‘And I'd notice. I'm always in the window, keeping the dust off the bikes. People want to see them shiny when they walk in.'

‘Anyone come in asking questions?'

‘Only you,' he said, then smiled as if worried he'd offended her.

She smiled back. ‘Do you know the people who work in the other businesses along here?'

‘Well, I know Dale with the aquarium store, and Chris does my taxes, and Zaina who works reception at the dentist's there. Did her a good deal on a Schwinn Cruiser a while back.'

‘Uh-huh,' Ella said. She looked around. ‘Do you sell bikes that fold up?'

‘I don't,' he said. ‘Had a couple in stock once and they took forever to sell. I can order one in if need be though.'

She held out the photo of the cyclist. ‘Do you happen to know what kind of bike this is?'

He took it and squinted at it. ‘Well, it's a folding one – you can see that by the long stem and post, and the smallish wheels.' He looked at her. ‘The stem holds up the handlebars, the post holds up the seat.'