caught something.
Fresh tire tracks.
She crouched down and took photos with her phone, the flash bright in the darkness. She looked up and scanned the row of houses opposite the vacant lot as she replayed in her mind the sound of someone crashing through these bushes. The sound of a car door slamming. An engine starting. Tires spinning as a vehicle sped away. She thought of the shadow she’d seen through the glass next to the Cresswell-Smiths’ front door. Her mind went to the blood. Ellie on the bathroom floor. The pills.
A man exited the front door of a house across from the lot. He wheeled his recycling bin down his driveway. Lozza pushed to her feet and went across the road to talk to him.
“Evening, sir, I’m Lozza Bianchi with the Jarrawarra police.”
“Officer,” he said, parking his recycling bin outside his gate. “What’s up?”
“Your house looks right at that vacant lot—did you happen to see a vehicle parked there earlier?”
“You mean a brown car?”
“So you did see a vehicle?”
“Well, yeah.” Wind gusted and dry gum leaves crackled across his driveway. A bat flitted under the boughs. “It was a Corolla. I saw it because it near killed my cat as it sped out of there. Bloody idiot.”
Lozza’s pulse quickened. “You sure it was a Corolla?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen it before. Parked down that street a couple of times with a guy just sitting inside like he was watching that developer’s house. Creeped my wife out. She said if we saw it again she was going to call you coppers.”
“Any chance you saw the rego?”
“Part of it was covered in dirt. But I did see the letters G-I-N. I think.”
“Yellow plate?”
The glow from the streetlight caught his frown as he seemed to cast his mind back. “Nah. Maroon on white, I think.”
“Queensland?”
“Could be, but definitely not the black on yellow of a New South Wales rego.”
Lozza thanked the man. She retrieved the package marked for Ellie, which she’d left on the lawn near the side door of the Cresswell-Smiths’ garage, and got into her Commodore. Lozza checked her watch, then called her mother.
“Hey, Mom,” she said, “I’m probably going to be home a bit late tonight.”
“Everything okay, love?” her mother said.
“Yeah. Something’s come up at work. New case. Missing person. Can I speak to Maya?”
“She’s in the bath.”
Lozza smiled and felt a warmth in her heart. “Tell her I’ll tuck her in when I get home, and remind her that her project is due at school tomorrow.”
Lozza killed the call and drove down to the dark and deserted Bonny River boat ramp. A lone white Toyota Hilux was parked in the lot beside an empty boat trailer.
She exited her marked vehicle and walked slowly around the ute and trailer. A slice of moon provided a silvery light, and an owl hooted softly.
If, as the woman next door had said, Ellie and Martin Cresswell-Smith had both gone out to sea in the Abracadabra early this morning, and if the boat had never returned, how had Ellie gotten back home?
What had happened between 5:49 a.m., when they’d logged on with marine rescue, and 7:40 p.m., when the neighbor had seen Ellie coming up from her studio boathouse?
THEN
LOZZA
Over one year ago, November 18. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.
“Take a seat, Lozz.”
Sergeant Jon Ratcliffe—the Jarrawarra station boss—motioned to a vacant chair in front of his desk. He’d called Lozza into his office first thing this morning.
She hesitated, then took a seat. She had with her the package she’d taken to the Bonny River home yesterday evening. She positioned it on her lap, along with the photograph of the “bikie” taken from the CCTV camera outside the Puggo entrance.
“Catch me up,” Jon said, leaning forward. His eyes were a dark beetle brown, intense. He was a big and imposing man. He ran a tight ship and held fierce command of his officers, but Lozza knew him to be fair. This was a small town, so she’d associated with him outside of work, too. He had a big family—five kids—and a heart of gold underneath that uniform and gruffness. “Run me through what happened at the Cresswell-Smith home yesterday—why were you there?”
Lozza moistened her lips and explained it all as best she could. And she was honest. She showed her superior the photo of the bikie. “This is the guy who delivered the package. I saw him ride off on a dirt bike. I recalled the Queensland rego because it didn’t look roadworthy. I ran the registration earlier