Now You See Me (16 page)

an
d
ra
n
dow
n
th
e
roa
d
t
o
th
e
townshi
p
.

N
o-
on
e
eve
r
questione
d
i
t.
N
o-
on
e
wondere
d
wh
y
I
wasn’
t
stil
l
i
n
m
y
schoo
l
clothe
s—
n
o-
on
e
eve
n
notice
d,I
suppos
e.
An
d
I
wa
s
luck
y.
Ther
e
wa
s
paraffi
n
store
d
under th
e
stair
s,
whic
h
explode
d,
an
d
th
e
whol
e
o
f
th
e
botto
m
floo
r
o
f
th
e
hous
e
wa
s
virtuall
y
reduce
d
t
o
as
h
befor
e
th
e
fir
e
brigad
e
arrive
d.
I
t
seeme
d
tha
t
m
y
parent
s
migh
t
hav
e
bee
n
o
n
th
e
staircas
e
tryin
g
t
o
ge
t
ou
t
whe
n
the
y
wer
e
overcom
e,
tha
t
th
e
fir
e
ha
d
starte
d
an
d
burgeone
d
downstair
s
befor
e
the
y
realise
d,
an
d
the
n
the
y
wer
e
trappe
d,
probabl
y
overcom
e
b
y
smok
e,
th
e
fireme
n
sai
d
knowingl
y.
Beam
s
ha
d
falle
n
o
n
to
p
o
f
the
m,
whic
h
furthe
r
confuse
d
thing
s.
N
o-
on
e
doubte
d
m
e
whe
n
I
sai
d
tha
t
m
y
mothe
r
sometime
s
use
d
t
o
slee
p
i
n
th
e
littl
e
roo
m
besid
e
min
e
wher
e
ther
e
wa
s
a
narro
w
mad
e-
u
p
be
d.
M
y
sister’
s
fe
w
clothe
s
wer
e
to
o
damage
d
fo
r
the
m
t
o
realis
e
the
y
ha
d
bee
n
cu
t
dow
n
fo
r
a
chil
d
an
d
beside
s,
n
o-
on
e
ha
d
th
e
faintes
t
ide
a
o
f
he
r
existenc
e.
Th
e
worl
d
outsid
e
wa
s
mor
e
innocen
t
the
n,
mor
e
trustin
g
o
f
th
e
obviou
s;
n
o-
on
e
sa
w
an
y
nee
d
fo
r
a
rea
l
investigatio
n
.

An
d
l
wa
s
th
e
youngste
r
i
n
shoc
k.
Suc
h
a
terribl
e
thin
g.
I
t
wa
s
a
wonderfu
l
thin
g.I
hav
e
neve
r
fel
t
agai
n
th
e
shee
r
transcenden
t
jo
y
o
f
thos
e
moment
s
whe
n
I
sa
w
th
e
fir
e
tak
e
hol
d
an
d
hear
d
m
y
parents
’
scream
s
begi
n.I
onl
y
hop
e
th
e
smok
e
didn’
t
suffocat
e
the
m
to
o
soo
n.I
hop
e
the
y
writhe
d
an
d
shrivelle
d
an
d
watche
d
thei
r
ow
n
hand
s
an
d
fee
t
becom
e
sizzlin
g
claw
s
o
f
bon
e.I
hop
e
the
y
turne
d
savagel
y
o
n
eac
h
othe
r
a
t
th
e
las
t,
scrabblin
g
t
o
escap
e.I
hop
e
the
y
die
d
howlin
g
an
d
cursin
g
i
n
agon
y
.

PART 2

SPRING-SUMMER

Who’s Killing Our Children?

by Noel Baker

OFFICIAL FIGURES HIDE CHILD MURDER

The real number of children murdered at home is about double the official figure, according to a new study by an expert on child deaths.

In yet another report tabled last week it was revealed that many parents are getting away with murder by passing off a child’s death as accidental when closer investigation would reveal the children had been killed by systematic abuse.

It’s become slightly unfashionable lately to care much about abused children. We’ve become blasé; we’ve gone back to refusing to believe it can be as widespread as it appears. A social worker I spoke to actually said that she thinks ‘a lot of people have just jumped on the child-abuse bandwagon, people who want to draw attention to themselves’.

If this is what the people in the field think, no wonder the rest of us have turned our backs. But whether it’s fashionable or not, it still goes on.

Among the horrific cases in the past couple of years, a five-year-old boy was found dead with his neck broken: an 18-month-old girl died two months after being plunged into scalding water, and a six-year-old boy was killed after having his head struck repeatedly with a hammer.

In one case, the mother asked Department of Community Services officers to take her five children into temporary care because she felt violent towards them.

They were left at home — no doubt a decision made by someone who thought she was ‘attention-seeking’ — and a few weeks later she and her partner killed her son.

There were 33,448 notifications of child abuse or neglect last year in NSW. It is now known that up to twenty children a year are killed by someone in their families.

About half this number were in families under the eye of government agencies, and should have been saved.

Many more children whose deaths had been put down to natural causes would be found to have died of abuse if proper investigations had been carried out.

NO FOLLOW UP

In many cases, welfare officers have been repeatedly alerted to problems, have visited the suspect homes several times, but have failed to act on complaints or on pleas for help from traumatised parents or family.

(continue
d
pag
e
2
7
)

Noel sits at the back of the crowded courtroom waiting for the sentencing of Gus Farrell. Her bag and jacket are on the chair next to her; she’s saving the seat for Sharon, nodding and giving an apologetic smile whenever anyone asks if it’s taken. Just as they all rise for the judge, Sharon slips inside and edges past her.

‘Thanks,’ she whispers. ‘Got caught up.’

They sit down and Noel looks over to the raised dais which Farrell shares with two guards. He seems calm, not even apprehensive, though he’d broken down when the jury brought in the guilty verdict.

‘Would he be on sedation?’ she asks Sharon.

‘Who knows? Not supposed to be ... but they wouldn’t want a repeat of last week’s scene.’ Sharon was here, too, the day the jury returned, and Noel had heard her triumphant hiss
:
‘Go
t
yo
u,
yo
u
bastar
d.’
Noel has been following most of the trial, to Rafferty’s annoyance.

‘The story’s dead, you told me so yourself,’ he said. ‘It’s a waste of time.’

‘It’s dead for now. I still think there’s something there.’ She’d persuaded him that if anything ever did come of it, this trial would be useful texture.

Now she lets her mind go blank as the judge begins her summing up. On the evidence there was no other possible verdict, and the prosecution had been very careful with the coroner, Albert Spinks, allowing him to express his doubts, but subtly pressing him to be specific. He admitted in the end that he couldn’t state without any doubt that it was unlikely for Farrell to have murdered the child. The defence didn’t seem to know what to make of him; they’d hardly cross-examined at all, concentrating on attacking the purely circumstantial nature of the case.

Noel scans the small room, wondering if Tony Voulas is there. She’s seen him a few times, gone out with him twice in a casual way. He’d lived up to her expectations in court, giving his evidence clearly and confidently — more confidently than he actually feels, she suspects, but he won’t admit it. She notices him standing in the doorway and when he sees her he winks at her. She turns her head back to survey the other people in the room. Artists from the tabloids are rapidly sketching the scene, most of them concentrating on the almost posed tableau of Farrell and the guards, his defence lawyers lined up at the narrow bench slightly below him. All the press drawings she’s seen so far have made Farrell look like a gnome, emphasising his protruding ears and sharp chin, but in fact he’s not a bad-looking man, she thinks. You’d meet him at any gathering and not think twice about him.

There’s a familiar-seeming woman with pale hair near the front of the court. Noel nudges Sharon. ‘Isn’t that ... whatsername? You know, she was at that picnic ...’

Sharon looks where she’s pointing. ‘Tess. Judith Harbin’s girlfriend.’

‘What’s she doing here? Judith wasn’t prosecuting this.’

‘Be quiet,’ Sharon says. ‘I want to listen to Mary-Claire. I haven’t heard all this stuff before.’

Noel knows the evidence thoroughly. She returns to studying the prisoner. What is he thinking? she wonders. If he’s guilty, is he feeling remorse, or only wishing he’d covered his tracks better? But what if Albert Spinks is right, and Farrell hadn’t killed his stepdaughter? Does he have any sense that he is being punished for what h
e
ha
d
done? Or is he seething with injustice and anger? Impossible to tell from that bland face. His wife, Belinda’s mother, hasn’t come to the trial at all, and she isn’t here today. Probably saving herself for the magazines and the big money, as Rafferty said when she’d refused to speak to Noel.

Judge Mary-Claire Cody finally puts down her sheaf of papers and takes her reading glasses off. Everyone sits slightly straighter.

‘That didn’t take long,’ Sharon whispers. ‘I’ve known her to spend most of the day summing up. She must be pretty convinced.’

‘There’s Rosa, too,’ Noel says suddenly. ‘Tom Thing’s wife.’

‘She works in Mary-Claire’s chambers, I think. Here it comes ...’

‘... the maximum penalty I am allowed to pronounce. No parole.’

Outside, Tony Voulas is waiting for them, grinning, in a group of uniformed policemen slapping him on the back. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’m on a break. Come and drink champagne.’ He frowns at the expression on Noel’s face.

‘What’s the matter? You don’t still think he’s innocent, do you?’

‘No ... I don’t know.’ She shakes her head, confused.

‘She’s feeling sorry for him,’ Sharon says. ‘Now he’s the underdog. Isn’t that right?’ She gives Noel a friendly elbow in the side.

‘Sort of.’ They walk down the passage through bustling gowned lawyers and police; civilians — witnesses and families — spilling in and out of the courts, and they go up some steps to a back door opening into the street.

‘He won’t have all that good a time in prison, will he?’ Noel says.

‘Be lucky to last a year,’ Tony says, unconcerned. ‘He’ll be in isolation, but someone’ll relax, one day, and someone else’ll be waiting with a sharpened spoon.’

‘Where are we going?’ She and Sharon are following him down Liverpool Street.

‘The Hilton, where else?’ He takes her hand loosely as they cross at the lights and Sharon gives her another dig with her elbow.

*

On Sunday morning Noel wakes when she hears the whistle of the paper delivery. She tries not to groan as she gets out of bed — she’s got a hangover from the retsina Tony pressed on her the night before. She puts on a T-shirt and some knickers, accidentally knocking the glass of water from her bedside table and swearing, but it doesn’t wake him. She can’t restrain an affectionate grin at the sight of him, mouth loosely open, one arm up over his eyes. He was unpredictably tender, making love, and they’d laughed a lot. They’ve only been asleep a couple of hours.

She collects her newspapers from the foyer and meets Paddy as she climbs back up the stairs. He’s hovering on her landing.

‘You look shocking,’ he says. ‘Had a good time?’

‘Great,’ she laughs. ‘Are you coming or going? Want a coffee?’ She doesn’t think Tony will wake for some time and she hasn’t seen Paddy for a while.

‘Love one. I wasn’t goin
g
o
r
coming, I heard you go down and thought if I hung around you’d give me breakfast.’ He looks as if he’s been up all night, baggy-eyed and grey under his tan, with stubble over his chin.

‘That’s stretching it, but I can probably do you toast and vegemite ...’

He follows her into her kitchen and she leaves him there while the coffee perks. She goes into the bathroom and looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. Mascara is streaked below her eyes, making her look like a raccoon, she thinks, and her hair has sprung up in whorls on one side of her head and lies flattened on the other. She splashes herself with hot water and makes a few passes with a brush. When she goes into the bedroom to find her track pants, Tony opens his eyes.

‘What day is it?’ He pulls her over to the bed with a long arm and kisses her. ‘Why are you up and about? Do I smell coffee?’

She runs her finger lightly across the silvered scar under his left eye. ‘Shall I bring it in to you?’

‘That’d be heaven on wheels. Very strong, very black. Two sugars. Can I smoke, too?’

‘Of course.’ She tosses him his cigarettes from the dresser.

‘And will you come back to bed?’ He pats the space beside him.

‘No, I’ve got company.’ She grins at his disappointed frown. ‘I bet you were a real spoilt little Greek boy, weren’t you?’

He laughs. ‘I had three of the biggest toughest sisters you’ve ever seen. I had to do weights all through school just to get strong enough for them to stop beating me up.’

‘Sure. I can see where it completely ruined your self-confidence, too.’ She pulls her pants on while his eyes close again. They’d used four condoms during the night, and now she notices he has more still in their seals on his side-table. She shakes her head and closes the door gently behind her.

*

Tony comes into the hall just as Paddy is leaving. He’s put his jeans on, leaving his hairy shoulders and chest bare. She resists an urge to caress him, and moves back into the kitchen. ‘What happened to that coffee?’

‘I thought you’d gone back to sleep. There’s plenty.’ She takes the pot off the stove and pours him a large mug.

‘Who was that guy leaving? He arrive too early for the day shift?’ He sits at the kitchen table and takes a large gulp of the scalding coffee. He grimaces and reaches for the sugar. ‘That’s Paddy. He’s my upstairs neighbour.’

‘Paddy ... yeah. I thought he was familiar. Paddy Galen, right?’

She’s slightly alarmed. It wouldn’t surprise her if Paddy has had his run-ins with the police. ‘How do you know him?’

‘We interviewed him over the Farrell thing.’

‘What
?
Padd
y
? What on earth for?’ She half spills her fresh cup of coffee, scalding herself. ‘Shit.’ She sponges her T-shirt off with the wettex and sits down opposite him. ‘What did he have to do with it?’

‘Nothing. We only spoke to him once. He worked in that wine bar in Glebe the kid used to go to. You know, the Carousel? But they all said she hadn’t been there that day.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ she says. ‘I could have spoken to him. Shit, I had a source right under my nose and I didn’t know.’

‘Well don’t glare at me. I didn’t know you knew him, either.’ He finishes his coffee and she waits for him to begin the awkward leaving conversation.

‘So, you coming back to bed or do I have to carry you?’ He sees the look on her face and says, ‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Tony, you were straight with me about all the Farrell stuff, weren’t you? I mean, you didn’t have leads that you kept from me ...’

‘Christ, Noel. I put my arse on the line getting you copies of those old files. There was nothing there, remember? Nothing. Waste of time. And ther
e
wer
e
no other leads. You saw printouts of all our records of interview — your mate Paddy’s was among them. Why would I keep anything from you?’ He is exasperated; he shakes his head like a goaded bull.

‘Yeah, I know. Sorry.’ She puts her mug down and stands staring out of the window. It’s been hard for her to let this story go, and Paddy being some sort of witness has shaken her again. She had just flicked through the interviews with the wine-bar staff. It was her fault she hadn’t noticed Paddy’s name. She turns towards him. ‘Do you still want to go back to bed?’

He relaxes and stands up, putting his arm around her.

*

Later, when he’s gone, she gets out her folders of notes on the Belinda Carey murder. She makes herself a coffee and curls up in her deep armchair near the window, Bach’
s
Wel
l-
Tempere
d
Clavie
r
playing in the background. She still thinks there’s something too pat about the case; it feels staged, somehow, though she now believes the police couldn’t have framed Farrell. As Tony had said, he’d shown her most of what they had and it all led to the conclusion they’d come to. Now a jury has agreed with them.

She gets up to change the disc; more Bach, preludes and fugues, then rummages in her filing cabinet for the copies of the child-death case histories she’d collected. Tony had helped her go through them again, all the recent incidents of incestuous or abusive murder of children, and none of them had the same MO as the killing of Belinda Carey. They all seemed the logical consequence of past events of violence in the family. Now she wonders if they’d been looking for the right things. Perhaps there’s
a
differen
t
pattern, she thinks. She does word puzzles as a recreation, she knows how the mind can get stuck in one or two particular ways of interpreting information
.
Com
e
bac
k
t
o
i
t
fres
h
, she tells herself
.
Loo
k
fo
r
anothe
r
wa
y
o
f
approachin
g
i
t
.

She kneels on the floral rug near the fireplace with cardboard folders strewn around her. After two hours she has extracted three files and put them aside to read again. She’s feeling stretched from all the coffee she’s drunk, and wondering whether her growing excitement is simply caffeine-induced. She leaves the mess on the floor and goes to make herself an omelette. She needs to eat something and have a couple of glasses of wine, then come back to it with her energies slightly blunted, free of any artificial exhilaration.

*

Sharon stares at her over the table at the coffee lounge. ‘You never give up, do you? You’re obsessed.’

‘But listen, in all these cases, there wa
s
onl
y
circumstantial evidence, just like Farrell. Nothing else — no eye-witnesses, no proof that the accused was there at the time. Just that he — or she, one of them was a woman — didn’t have an alibi. There was a history of abuse, and the forensics were overwhelming. It’s the same pattern, don’t you see that?’