Where Have You Been? (28 page)

Susan looks closely at the two grainy photographs. They are similar in appearance, in type, these two girls: both fair, with Farrah Fawcett flicks, plucked eyebrows, cheeky grins. There's little enough to distinguish between the two, but the picture of Carleen Potter is somehow familiar. There's a certain something in this girl's smile that Susan knows well, but can't quite place, and in the way she has her head tilted. It shouldn't be surprising, no doubt this woman's life is going on somewhere – just as Carly's did for all those years. She could be anyone – a schoolteacher, shopkeeper, bus driver, even a neighbour. And it could just be Susan's imagination...

It
could
just be her imagination, but even so she nudges Stella, who is sitting patiently beside her, and points to the photograph, raises her eyebrows. Often the kids see things she can't – lost needles for instance, or the sunglasses that have been left in the fruit bowl – and this is no exception. Stella doesn't hesitate.

‘That's Carly, Mum,' she says, excited. ‘She looks really different, though, doesn't she? With long hair. Must of been in the olden days. Look,' she puts her finger on the girl's mouth. ‘Her broken tooth's just the same.' Then: ‘Why's Aunty Carly in a newspaper? Mum? Is she famous?'

Susan tears out the article, ignoring the receptionist's glare, and shoves it into her handbag. ‘I'll tell you later,
sweetheart.' She grabs Stella's good hand, pulls her up. ‘I've just remembered that I've left the stove on, Stell. We'll have to see the doctor another day. We have to go right now.'

She takes the bemused Stella back to school (‘But
Muuum,
what about the stove?'), arranges for her to join Mitchell at after-school care – a family emergency, she explains – and rushes home. The photos and clippings she'd gone through the night before are still out, strewn untidily across the lounge room coffee table. She finds the old
Sun
clipping, then smoothes out the new article, lays them side by side, looks closely at the featured portraits. There's an undeniable resemblance between these three lost girls: they're all fair, all roughly the same age, seventeen or eighteen. Karen: missing, presumed dead – by her at least – for over twenty years; the face in that photograph is almost as familiar as her own. Jane Harkness, evidently alive somewhere, but completely unknown, quite unfamiliar.

The third photograph – head tilted slightly, the smile: wise, knowing – is of Carleen Potter. Like Karen's, this face is familiar, but more urgently, more recently, so. Her eyebrows are thinner, hair longer, face slightly rounder, more open. But the chipped tooth, as Stella has pointed out, is unmistakable.

Susan sorts through the other papers strewn across the coffee table – what a mess she'd made last night – the entire contents of her photo box seems to be out, and all the family documents – the articles detailing her sister's disappearance, her children's birth certificates, her own, their marriage certificate, deeds to their house. Right at the bottom of the pile she finds a large manila envelope – the one Gillian sent. It had arrived a couple of weeks ago, and she'd put it in a drawer, unopened, and then forgotten all about it. She must have opened it last night, half-remembers an abandoned attempt to decipher the contents, must have shoved them
back in willy-nilly. She slides the papers out now and sorts them carefully, puts them in chronological order, then reads through them, quickly, compulsively.

She looks back at the cuttings. Even without the chipped tooth there'd be no doubt.

No doubt at all.

Howard's secretary puts her straight through. She gives him a rushed and garbled account of events – of Carly's continued absence, the pictures in the newspaper article, the reports from Gillian.

‘Oh, dear. Dear, dear. This is ... I think perhaps you'd better come over now. We'll see what can be done to ... er ... sort things out.'

Sort things out. The sorting's been done, though, hasn't it? They've all been thoroughly sorted.

Ed takes a long lunch break. He usually takes none, gulps down a quick sandwich in his office, so feels he is justified. He isn't working, anyway. He can't. He tells Moira that he will be gone for an hour or so, maybe more.

He wanders along the busy industrial streets, tramps south, then east, heads back into the beachside suburbs, not seeing anything, or anyone; thinking of his life, what he wants, where he's heading. It seems he's forgotten. Lost his certainty, his focus, his direction.

Looking back, he's amazed by how effortlessly the framework of their family life expanded to accommodate Carly, how the structure of their existence seemed initially unchanged: as if the new addition really dovetailed effortlessly with the original. He supposes that for a while it,
she, did: and even when it didn't quite, the differences were exhilarating, striking – like rosewood marquetry in a maple door.

But now, when the new construction has revealed itself fully, he can see that the apparent durability was deceptive – it's like a cupboard that's missing a screw, lacking some glue: it's been put together well enough, can withstand the usual wear and tear, but put under additional pressure – bearing the weight of a solid granite benchtop, say – the doors won't align, drawers won't close, and eventually the cupboard will buckle under the strain, maybe even collapse. You'll be left with nothing but worthless bits of board – warped and battered out of all recognition.

And way beyond repair.

He finds himself at the end of his own street – he's walked for more than almost two hours, headed for home, almost unwittingly. He speeds up, thinks that he will call Moira, get a taxi back, he has things to do, an appointment at three, quotes to phone in. He's a few houses away when he notices the little red car parked in his driveway, a woman sits waiting in the driver's seat. The woman – blonde, slender, dressed all in black – climbs out and opens the boot, and then Carly comes into view, bulging green garbage bags slung over each shoulder. Ed goes to call out, but thinks again. He steps back a little, conceals himself behind a large jacaranda in a neighbour's yard, watches as Carly hoists the bags carelessly into the boot, slams it shut.

The women stay behind the car for a moment, talking; they turn to look back up the driveway, Carly points something out, and they laugh. Then Carly slings her arm around the unknown woman's waist, pulls her towards her, pulls her close, closer. They stay like that for a moment, one woman gathered into the other, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, and then their separate profiles merge. The two
women kiss. And even from this distance, even though he has to squint to focus properly, Ed knows that this is not a kiss between friends. It is a slow kiss, a hungry kiss.

A kiss between lovers. Between Carly and her lover. It's a kiss he recognises. It's a kiss he knows.

She passes Howard the two newspaper articles. When he puts his glasses on, little half-moon reading spectacles, he seems years older, reminds her suddenly of her father, becomes a fussy dry little man. Whatever it was between them, whatever crazy spark or magnetism flared briefly between them, has dissolved, evaporated as quickly as it appeared.

He smoothes the papers on his desk, looks from one article to the next, then back again. Shakes his head. Sighs. He looks at Susan anxiously. ‘I see what you mean,' he says slowly. ‘There's a definite resemblance. It's unmistakable. Oh dear.'

‘There's more. Gillian – my stepmother – sent me these a few weeks ago. I'd put them away, forgotten about them, hadn't even thought to look at them until now. They're reports from an agency that my mother hired years ago. Dad ended up with the reports because he paid the accounts. By that time Mum was barely lucid. And of course nobody
ever bothered to tell me about them. She'd hired a private detective.'

The story sounds absurd to Susan, melodramatic; the entire situation is looking increasingly like something from a bad film. Howard holds out his hand for the files, but she hesitates, finds she cannot hand them over so easily. They're something to hold onto after all. Something solid. ‘Perhaps I could read them to you?'

‘It would be quicker if I go through them myself...' He must sense her determination, her desperation. Shrugs, ‘Whatever you like, Susan.'

She has put the reports in order, pinned them together at the top. ‘The agency was called Marlowe and Co Investigative Agents.'

Susan winces, but Howard nods, ‘They're quite a reputable firm – and still in business. I've had dealings with them myself occasionally. It's all quite regular.'

‘This first letter is dated 21st June, 1984.' She's surprised by the clarity and strength of her voice. ‘That's almost ten years after Karen ... left. She'd have been twenty-seven.'

Howard gives an encouraging nod.

‘
Dear Mrs Carter,'
Susan reads slowly.

‘
Just a brief letter to inform you that as yet no information regarding your daughter Karen has come to light. Our agents have made extensive enquiries in the Kings Cross district as per your request, but have not yet had any positive identification. As discussed, the time element is against us, as is the transient nature of the neighbourhood.

Please find account attached.

Yours sincerely

J.D. Nicholson, Marlowe and Co.'

She prises the letter from its clip and passes it across the desk. Hamilton reads through quickly, then looks up at Susan, raises his eyebrows. ‘Go on.'

She goes on.

‘
Dear Mrs Carter,

We have had at last some slight success. A Mr Joseph Giannopoulos, proprietor of Gianni's Cafe, Darlinghurst, has identified your daughter as being one of two female tenants who lived in the flat above the cafe from 1980–1981. Though he claims that he knew very little about her (he cannot remember her name, isn't certain that she did go by the name Karen), he does recall her telling him that she was moving to St. Kilda, Melbourne. She left sometime around April 1981.

Please let us know if you wish us to continue our investigation in Melbourne. Our interstate costs will comprise the daily rate, plus travel – return by air – and accommodation.

Yours sincerely,

J.D. Nicholson, Marlowe and Co.'

She hands this letter over, begins reading the next.

‘
Dear Mrs Carter,

We have had a positive identification here in Melbourne. The local constabulary are certain that a young woman who strongly resembles your daughter goes by the name Michelle or Shelly Brown and has lived in the St. Kilda area for several years. Unfortunately, according to several acquaintances, she has recently moved – allegedly to Western Australia – in company with another young woman, one Carleen Taylor. They have left no forwarding address. We have requested that we be informed if anyone receives information as to their present whereabouts.

We enclose our account.'

It's all there, but she reads him the last letter anyway. It provides an ending, of sorts.

‘
Dear Mrs Carter,

As discussed over the phone we feel that it is very unlikely that any further information regarding your daughter will come to light. We have received no further information as to her current whereabouts from any of our numerous contacts, and as it has now been over six months, we very much doubt that we will.

We hereby tender our final account.'

They sit in silence for a long moment. Susan places the last letter carefully on the desk, smoothes it out gently, almost caressingly. She looks around the bland office, some part of her vaguely amazed that such a place could provide the backdrop to such drama, such melodrama. She's amazed, too, by an inexplicable feeling of calm, of lightness; a creeping sense of relief. The hangover wearing off, perhaps.

Howard Hamilton has taken his glasses off, rubs his eyes tiredly. ‘What makes you so certain?' he asks. ‘The investigators could have made a mistake. The name – Carleen, Carly – it could just be a coincidence.'

‘It's not just that. My sister's middle name was Michelle,' she points out. ‘Michelle. Shelly.'

He clears his throat. ‘I think at this stage, Susan,' he says almost apologetically, ‘we really need to call in the police.'

Ed walks on and on and on. North, east, south, west. North again. He loses track. When his feet can't take it any longer – he's wearing work brogues, not joggers – he stops at a garage and phones for a taxi. He has to ask the mechanic where he is exactly, he hasn't got a clue.

And when the driver asks him where he's going, he answers without thinking: ‘home'.

‘Yeah, man,' he can see the driver's expression in the rear vision mirror, the exaggerated eye roll. ‘But where's that? Where's home?'

He'd like to tell the man that he's not sure, that he's not certain that it even exists any more. That it's possible that his home only exists somewhere in the past. And that's a destination no taxi can ever take him – a place of no return.

‘Head to the coast,' he says, eventually. It's the best he can do, for now.

This time the police are brisk, businesslike. After all, this is not a disappearance, not a time for compassion, for counselling. This time it is quite straightforward. There may be warrants to issue, accounts to trace, people to interview. This time it is not a sister she has lost, but money. It is all very fast, very efficient.

When Susan arrives home with the kids in the early evening there is a message on the answerphone. Howard's voice, cool, remote: ‘There's news. But it's not good I'm afraid. Call me.'