Death Delights (16 page)

I peered further into the car’s interior. My sister had been in there, restrained, terrified. Maybe even assaulted. If there was any trace of her, I would find it. I saw two old-fashioned beer bottles lying in the back amid some other rubbish, but none of it was rubbish to me. It was like finding pure gold. I straightened up, realising I was emotionally numb with the shock of this discovery. Then, as the numbness started wearing off, I could feel my anger and bewilderment mounting. If Bevan Treweeke was a known pedophile, who should have been on any shortlist for interview, as Colin Swartz had said, what had happened? Why the hell hadn’t he been pulled in? Why hadn’t his place been searched? Why hadn’t this car been found? And why hadn’t he been charged? I knew corruption had been part and parcel of the old police force of twenty-five years ago and I’d been aware of it during the time that I was a serving officer. It was known that in the past pedophiles had been able to buy themselves out of trouble with certain corrupt police officers. But surely not out of abduction and murder.

My legs were shaking under me and I had to lean against one of the workbenches that ran the length of the side wall. My mind was running ahead of itself. If someone turns out to have been corrupt, it started telling me, I’ll track him down and I’ll— But I stopped this sort of thinking in its tracks. I reminded myself I was a man of science with a lifetime of law enforcement behind me and that at this stage, I could make no assumptions. There was a process and I would follow it, step by step. The thought of my familiar methodology calmed me down and I pulled out my mobile and rang the Crime Scene people at Parramatta to discover that they had left an hour and a half ago and should be arriving at any minute. When they did, I explained who I was and, because of my old association with Bob Edwards, discovered my presence would be tolerated when they went over the house and garage.

The two Crime Scene officers and I systematically searched Treweeke’s little house, but we found nothing except that he’d had a passion for plastic flowers. Dusty bunches decorated every surface in cut glass vases, or nailed into position over doorways. I washed up at the kitchen sink and Treweeke’s old cat wailed around my legs wanting a feed. I found some milk in the fridge for it. You poor bugger, I said to the cat as it lapped up the milk. I looked around the kitchen. An arrangement of blue and yellow plastic flowers put me in mind of the blue and yellow enamel necklace I’d given to Rosie. I went closer to them and saw they were covered in spider webs. In fact, the plastic was so old and brittle that the cobwebs were practically holding them together. With my eyes now tuned to cobwebs, I could see them everywhere. Treweeke had not been a good housekeeper. They darkened each high corner of the ceiling and covered the edges of the dusty windowpanes.

I heard my sister’s words of the night before: ‘Apply the new knowledge to the old.’ Looking at the cobwebs and the way they interconnected and threaded around the dusty fake flowers, I had a realisation of what she meant. In the last few years, we’d come to know so much more about the activities and proclivities of men like Bevan Treweeke. They were like spiders with interconnecting webs building little networks for themselves comprising others of their ilk. They exchanged information. In certain cases, they even exchanged children. We found nothing in the house, but I knew enough about men to know that often their most important secrets were hidden in the shed.

I went back to the shed where the Holden lay, followed by the old cat. I started looking through tool boxes and drawers of spanners and fasteners. It was right over in a corner under the dirty sink that I found it. A small address book, wrapped in a greasy rag, hidden in a pile of old towels, shoved right at the bottom of the plastic basket. There was nothing to identify its owner in the front pages. I quickly went through it. Under the heading ‘Birdwatchers Club’ I saw a list of names and numbers at the front: Tony S, Julie B, Bobbie T, Sandy M, Robyn Mc, JoJo A. Except for ‘Julie B’ they were all androgynous names that men like these often adopt between themselves. It was the phone numbers I was really interested in. I had a horrible feeling I knew exactly what sort of quarry these birdwatchers stalked. I put the book in a plastic bag and turned my attention back to the car. By tomorrow night, this car and its canvas cover would be wrapped up, crated, freighted and delivered to the dock beside the Forensic Services Division where I would go over it inch by inch. This was the first lead we’d had in twenty-five years. I would apply all the knowledge we now had regarding these men and their habits and then I’d reapply myself to my little sister’s case. I closed my eyes and briefly prayed that this might be the end of it. Then maybe I could close the book on Rosie and get on with sorting out the rest of my life.

Colin Swartz had loaned me the case records of Bevan Treweeke, and I was hopeful I might be able to find something that would cast more light on her abduction and her fate. Just before I left, he called round to the damp old cottage.

‘Thought you’d like to know someone from Blacktown went round and had a chat to that fellow the Holden was registered to, name of .
 
.
 
.’ He frowned, reaching into his memory.

‘Bradley John Wheeler,’ I reminded him.

‘Christ, you’ve got a good memory,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘Only in certain cases.’

‘Turns out he’s an alderman now,’ he continued. ‘Pillar of the community.’ He must have seen my face because he added, ‘In the old days,’ and his voice was plaintive, ‘things like that used to mean something.’ He paused. ‘He’s a cleanskin. Says he remembers the Holden very well. It was his pride and joy when he was a youngster. He sold it after a rally in the Blue Mountains. Some young bloke. Gave him the rego papers all those years ago and never heard a word from him after that.’

•

I drove back to Sydney with yet another folder to add to the pile on my dining room table.

I was intending to go straight home when I noticed the sign to Annandale and almost without knowing what I was doing, I found myself taking the turn-off to the road where Iona Seymour lived. I parked unobtrusively and sat there, leaning back in the seat, tired from the driving, wondering what the hell I was doing sitting off this woman’s house while I ran different scenarios for inserting myself into her life. I was wondering what it would be like becoming a volunteer at an FM radio station, when I looked up and saw her walking to her car. Because the afternoon was quite hot now, she was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless checked shirt, tied in a knot at the midriff, and I was surprised at the muscles in her calves and thighs and, more especially, by her well-developed shoulders. She drove down the road and I pulled out, following her to a cross road where she took a right-hand turn and then a hard left. She parked and got out as I went past her and around the corner of the short lane she’d stopped in. I hurried back to find her making her way up a ramp beside a graceful Anglican church.

Another desperate prayer, I wondered. Is that what she’s up to? I was curious and excited as I watched her walk past the side entrance and head for the drab hall behind the stone church. For many years some time ago, I myself had spent hundreds of hours in places like this and I wondered if I now knew her secret. I have never forgotten the wretched early days of sobriety, learning to live without the only thing that had made living possible at all. If Iona Seymour was an alcoholic, we had a lot in common. It would certainly explain the strong attraction I felt towards her. It is a fact that addicts seem to be drawn to each other.

The doors of the church hall stood wide open, and I could see people sitting in a circle inside. Because those present were mostly women, I suspected it wasn’t, in fact, an AA meeting, where the ratio of men to women is at least sixty to forty, and I was about to turn away when a young woman standing in the doorway whose grey-blue eyes matched her shirt, suddenly reached out and took my arm.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, with a kindly smile. ‘A lot of people want to run away when they first arrive. Are you here for the meeting?’ I couldn’t think of any response, so I just nodded. ‘I’m Nell,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘We only go by first names here.’

Suits me, I thought, since I already know the surname of the member of your group that I’m interested in. ‘John,’ I said automatically, reverting to my real name and giving her hand a vigorous shake.

Nell drew me inside, found an empty chair and sat me down in it. Almost immediately, I realised I’d walked into one of AA’s several offspring: Twelve Step groups dedicated to almost every problem associated with being human. Banners on the wall declared this to be ‘Relations Anonymous’ with the Twelve Steps slightly adapted. I knew of Twelve Step groups for compulsive overeaters, for smokers, for narcotics users, for pill-poppers and for gamblers, and I’d heard of similar groups for people with HIV, sexual compulsions and even for those whose credit card use was completely out of control. Someone had once even tried to convince me she’d been to a Vampires Anonymous meeting in LA.

My arrival had interrupted a woman speaking from her place in the circle.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to her. She acknowledged me and continued speaking.

‘—so now I’m trying to stand on my own two feet for the first time in my life. I’ve always expected a man would do it for me. Not that I was aware of it. I thought I was pretty independent until the divorce. Now there’s just me.’ As she spoke, I looked around the group, careful not to betray too much of an interest in the dark-haired woman in the checked shirt and shorts who was only a few chairs away to my right. The format felt very familiar and it didn’t take me long to work out that Relations Anonymous seemed to have its focus on those who were suffering because of difficult relationships with other people. Even though I was here somewhat under false pretences, the irony of my position was not lost on me. I certainly had the right qualifications to be a member of this group and I didn’t feel so much of a fraud as I might have. With the exception of Bob and Charlie, I thought to myself, all the relationships in my life have been problematic. As memories of Genevieve, my son and daughter, and earlier memories of my father and mother stirred, I forgot for the moment the hanged suicide and the Holden as I focused my attention on what was being said. The next speaker was describing how she’d finally kicked her boyfriend out after he’d told her she was fat and ugly and would never find another man.

‘I told him I disagreed with his assessment of me,’ she recounted, ‘but that he’d most definitely have to find another woman. And I walked away,’ she said. ‘That was last week and I’m still a bit shaky, but on the whole I feel pretty good about it.’ As she sat down, the chairperson looked straight at me.

‘John,’ she said, and I realised Nell must have added my name to the list in front of the woman who was chairing the meeting. ‘Would you like to tell us something about why you’re here?’

‘Not today, thank you,’ I said, using a familiar formula. ‘I’ll just listen.’

And I did, sometimes listening as speakers described the difficulties they were having with some of the people in their lives, but mostly going back over my memories of Bevan Treweeke’s place, recalling the freshly painted name on the mailbox, the poor condition of the cottage, the ladder against the wall. These inconsistencies might be telling me something important. I wanted to know why no one had found that Holden twenty-five years ago and I realised I’d been miles away when I suddenly heard her name being called.

‘Iona,’ the chairwoman was saying, and I was now completely alert and present in the long hall with its dull floorboards and tall windows. The voice I knew so well now was very low, and though she was only a short distance away I had to strain to hear.

‘It’s getting worse,’ she said. ‘I simply don’t know what to do. I’ve learned from coming here that I’m not responsible for things I have no control over, but in this case, I feel that I am. I feel lost. I don’t know what to do. There is nowhere I can turn except here. I tried talking to someone about my situation, but he doesn’t really understand.’ She broke off and I felt an unreasonable dislike of the man who had failed her. ‘I’m trying to find some clarity in all the confusion.’ She stopped and, after a lengthy pause, the chair invited another speaker.

As the next speaker outlined his strategy for dealing with a challenging daughter, I was wondering what it was that Iona Seymour had no control over. I kept her in my peripheral vision as I helped to stack chairs away against the wall after the meeting. Several people had gathered around the refreshments table and I glanced across in time to see that Iona was hurrying towards the door. No chitchat for her. So there was not going to be an easy way for me to insinuate myself into her day. But she was stopped by the sociable Nell who drew her to one side and made two cups of instant coffee, passing one to Iona, all the time engaging her in conversation.

‘John,’ she said, noticing me, ‘Coffee?’ And before I could say yes or no, she had poured one and was holding it out to me.

‘Thanks,’ I said, taking it from her.

‘Your first meeting?’ Nell asked.

‘Of this fellowship,’ I said, trying not to look too interested in the tall woman near us, drinking her coffee fast, almost edging away.

‘I’ve found these meetings very helpful,’ said Nell. ‘You might, too.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ I said, as Iona put down her unfinished coffee cup and turned to leave.

I put my untouched coffee down and exited fast, smiling an apology at Nell, and hurried back down the ramp to see Iona Seymour walk to her car, climb in and pull out.

I raced to my car and followed her down the road, where she stopped at a small local supermarket a few streets away from her house. Perfect, I thought to myself. This might be the opportunity. She went inside and I followed her, took a trolley and set off down the aisles to find her. She was working from a shopping list and I watched what she selected. The strange intimacy I felt with her, although she didn’t know of my existence, increased as I became familiar with her choices: a large pack of natural muesli, a sugary processed cereal, soy milk, full cream milk, cheeses, sweet biscuits, free range eggs, bacon, tins of weird health food and fruit and vegs from the chilled racks near the door. I bought a couple of things I needed, and followed her to the checkout area, taking one of a number of bags of oranges from a hook near the exit. As the Lebanese proprietor operated his till and Iona’s goods were pushed towards the end of the checkout, I ripped open the bottom of the bag of oranges with the penknife I’ve carried with me since my days in the Scouts so that oranges went everywhere, into her trolley, around our feet, or rolled away towards the door.