Alex Palmer - The Labyrinth of Drowning

‘From this it looks like he made appointments to see them.’

‘He did. He’d ring or write to ask if they wanted to go to lunch or have a drink sometime. You know, he got letters from people years after the camps finished.’

‘It looks like he met Joel Griffin at Parramatta Court House. Did he talk to you about that?’ Harrigan asked.

‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he could have kept that appointment. That’s when he disappeared. So I guess he never turned up.’

‘Did you show these records to the police?’

She looked at him angrily, with tears in her eyes. ‘They weren’t interested. How could any of this Camp Sunshine stuff be relevant? Never mind about that complaint!’

‘Do you know this Sara that Griffin talks about? The letter seems to indicate your brother knew her.’

‘The only Sara I knew was Sara McLeod,’ she replied, raising her eyebrows. ‘Her parents were the main donors to the charity. They were absolutely filthy rich, they had this huge house at Palm Beach. They’re the ones who pulled the plug. She used to come to the camps.’ ‘Why? She can’t have been underprivileged.’

She shrugged, a sarcastic expression on her face. ‘No, she wasn’t. But when your main donor rings up and says he wants his daughter to go to the camp he’s financing, you don’t say no. I think her parents sent her there to get her out of their hair. They didn’t seem to care what happened to her. One year when I was there, everyone else had left but her. All these underprivileged children had either been picked up or taken to the railway station. Not her. Her mother was supposed to come and get her and she’d forgotten all about it. I can still see her just sitting there, this gangly twelve-year-old looking so alone and unhappy. In the end, we drove her. I remember when we dropped her off, Ian asked her if her parents were home and she said probably not, they often went away for days. I think they just left her.’

‘What kind of a girl was she?’

‘A deliberate troublemaker. She’d go out of her way to spoil things for everybody else. Some of the things she did were really cruel. She told one boy once she’d heard his grandmother was dead. His grandmother was the only relative this boy had in the world. He was crying his eyes out and she was just laughing at him. Ian used to spend a lot of his time neutralising her effect. The problem was, he couldn’t send her home. Her parents sent her to Camp Sunshine every year and they made it clear they didn’t want her coming back until the camp was finished. I think it was because they didn’t have to pay for anything. Camp Sunshine was only ever a tax deduction for them. The way I see it, she took everything out on everyone around her. She wanted everyone to be as unhappy as she was.’

‘But she took up with this boy Joel, whoever he was.’

‘It does seem that way. That’s a bit odd, knowing the sort of girl she was.’

‘Are there any pictures of her?’

‘No. Ian deliberately didn’t take any.’

‘Do you know what colour hair she had?’

‘It was red, quite striking. She was an attractive girl. It was a pity she was the way she was,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Just a question. Do you have any idea why the McLeods pulled the plug on Camp Sunshine?’

‘We were told they were going overseas, all of them, including Sara, and they just wouldn’t be continuing.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess that’s what they did.’

‘I know you say your brother would never have committed suicide,’ Harrigan said, ‘but how do you explain the note he left?’

‘I don’t think he wrote it.’

As a police officer, Harrigan had heard this kind of denial from any number of grieving relatives or partners.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It wasn’t handwritten. It came off his computer, or a computer. That’s another detail no one bothered to check. All he did was sign it.’

‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t write it.’

‘If he’d handwritten it, maybe I’d believe it. I just don’t believe Ian would turn on his computer to write a note like that. He would have picked up the nearest sheet of paper. Can I show you something?’

‘Sure.’

She took him outside, to a silky oak that was growing in the back garden. Attached to the trunk was a plaque with a picture of a smiling, forty-something Ian Blackmore set in it. The inscription read: Ian. Always in our hearts, now and forever.

‘I planted this for him when the police closed the case,’ Liz Brewer said. ‘I’m sure he’s dead, I’ve accepted that. I know if he was alive he would have contacted me. But I just want to know what happened to him and where he is now. I’d give him a proper burial if only I knew where he was.’

She leaned against the tree and wept. Harrigan briefly wondered if he should put his hand on her shoulder, and decided not to. Don’t intrude, it’s her grief. He was back to being the policeman again, watching from a distance because it was the only way to function.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s go inside.’

Inside, she washed her face and then offered him coffee.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Would you let me take this photograph of Joel and his letter away? I promise you, you’ll get them back safe and sound.’

‘Do you think you can find Ian?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I can try. If you’ve got a picture of him as well, that would help.’

‘All right.’ She had more tears in her eyes. ‘If you can find him, that will be enough for me. It’s certainly worth a couple of photographs and a letter.’

These things broke your heart, Harrigan thought. Where would a body be after eight years? Rotting in the bush somewhere? Dumped out at sea? How could he hope to find it?

The second half of his day, after a few phone calls, took him from north to south, to the inner west, Burwood, to Avondale Nursing Home. The sign outside the former late Victorian mansion announced that it was a high care and dementia care nursing home with over thirty years’ experience. He walked inside to the reception desk. The air was warm, almost a little steamy. There was a smell of food and, underneath it, urine and faeces.

‘Can I help?’ the receptionist asked, a middle-aged woman with glasses.

‘I rang earlier,’ he said. ‘About a Mrs Griffin. The director of nursing agreed to see me.’

‘I’ll just take you through.’

The director greeted him with a handshake. She was a younger, dark-haired woman.

‘I’m Hilary Totaro,’ she said. ‘You were asking about Loretta. Would you like to tell me why?’

‘As you can see from my card, I’m a consultant. If Mrs Griffin is who I think she is, my current assignment has led me to believe that her son may be dead.’

‘I don’t think that news will have much effect on Loretta. What was this son’s name?’

‘Joel.’

‘I’ll take you to meet her. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

Loretta Griffin was a tiny, birdlike woman strapped in her wheelchair. Her hair was white and thin like a child’s, sparse against her pink scalp. She was being fed by a nurse’s aide and looked around vacantly after each mouthful. Her hands bunched and unbunched as she ate and her feet were twisted on the wheelchair’s footrests. There was a terrible scar across her head, clearly visible under her thin hair.

‘Hello, Loretta. How are you today?’ Hilary said.

The woman turned to her with huge staring eyes, still eating but not speaking.

‘She’s got a good appetite today,’ said the nurse’s aide, glancing at Harrigan.

‘That’s good. All right, Loretta. See you later now.’