Tracing Paths

TRACING PATHS - The sins of our mothers

Introduction - Jayne

As we walk the paths of life, we leave imprints in time, traces of ourselves. To see these traces is like looking through layers and layers of shadows, some vibrant with emotion, others etched in sorrow or sadness. Most though are just the wake of everyday life, no fuss, nothing worth remembering, these are thinnest shadows, barely noticeable. Like looking into front and back mirrors, these layers are endless, disappearing into infinity.

Some walk silent, others speak to themselves or react to the sounds long remembered or of those around them. They are not ghosts, just traces of lives forever imprinted in time. Lower your barriers and all you see are various shapes and shades of grey, all you hear are thousands of voices, echoing and fading in and out like a radio that just touches the edge of frequency. Those flashes of movement just beyond your vision, the feeling of a presence in an empty room, the movement within deep dark shadowed corners, they are the traces of paths that briefly cross into our time and space. Those that persist in this crossing, who don’t recognise the end of life, who cling to form or relive the dramas of their lives, these are the ghosts, the poltergeists, the familiar of our horror stories, our nightmares, and yes, they are the first seen and long remembered.

I remember as a child my first sighting. The lady in white, sitting calmly at the end of my bed, watching me, gently running a hand through her white hair. I’d see her walk the hall of my grandparents home, or stroll through the garden, night or day time. She was a comfort to me, a feeling that I would be safe and looked after. Her long dress would gently flow around her, her hair blown across her face by an unseen breeze. She was always the feeling of motion and movement, like ocean waves, like drifting clouds. Her features were elfin, her fingers long and delicate, her skin the look of fine china. I did not realise how much I missed her, or how I wish for that feeling of safety and tenderness that came with her.

It was during this time that I first became aware of the shadows, as they ebbed and flowed around the lady as she traced her path. The white seemed brighter as these grey shadows passed her, but only briefly, as she would then be absorbed into the shadows, greyness filled my eyes for a minute fraction moments before the colour of the world around me assailed my senses.

In my teens the grey shadows followed me, constantly touching the edge of my vision, forever in the darkness. I’ve not seen my lady for some months, instead a nurse, dressed in the shadow grey, is prominent, and the only shadow to acknowledge I exist. She is demure in attitude, and though I feel cared for I do not feel the comfort or safety of the white lady. I feel my nurse is trying to protect me, though from what I do not know. She is strict, plain, efficient, purposeful. I feel clumsy and inadequate and when I fumble I sense her disapproval. When she is present she keeps the other shadows at bay, in time I learn to build my barriers until in the end she too is no longer foremost in my sight.

By my early twenties I use my sense of shadows to enhance my awe and wonder of the world, especially in old buildings. In churches it is the strongest, a feeling of calm and peace as years of devoted prayer and worship wash you and invite you to sit and rest awhile. I am an atheist, yet still feel this sense and welcome from the those that passed, not the religion.

I have felt the misery of convicts when I have touched the walls of their ruined prison, and been brought to tears by their suffering and squalid conditions. I have touched the front door of old houses and felt the mixture of emotions, the trill of newly weds, the brief sadness of leaving, the matter of fact attitude of older parents impatient to settle the children into the new home. From it’s first tenants I can trace the ages, see the changes of centuries, clothes, furniture, their modern appliances now today’s antiques. I watch, layer upon layer of shadows retrace and remember, watching imprints of those from the 19th century inlaid with shadows of the 20th. It is an amazing scene to watch, like looking at dozens of movies all on the one screen.

These imprints also impress themselves on items such as jewellery, furniture, treasured ornaments, letters and diaries. I once threw an antique sapphire and diamond ring back in the face of the shop owner (much to their disgust) at having felt the last moments of one of it’s previous owners as she lay dying, bleeding to death whilst her assailants tore the ring from her hand, a ring her love had given her many years before. The burst of anger, humiliation and outrage from this frail old lady burnt my senses, leaving me shaken and gasping for breath, holding my hand over my pounding heart. The hardest items to touch are those of loved ones from World War 1, the sense of loss and sorrow at never seeing him again, the bewilderment of why, and the tears and sadness bring me to tears every time. For whatever reason, I don’t feel this as intensely with items belonging to soldiers from other wars. Lest we forget.

These are my worldly shadows, tracing paths left a life time ago.

Chapter 1

Jessica left home to get milk from the corner shop. A trip she had done a hundred times, a sign she was grown up and trusted by her parents. It was getting dark early tonight, a storm brewing, the thick black clouds covering the sun, creating an early twilight. Jessica thought she’d race the storm, be home in time for Neighbours and not have to waste time drying herself. She stared suspiciously at the clouds as a drop of rain hit her head, so she quickened her pace. A car pulled into the driveway ahead of her, she’d lose time running around it if it didn’t hurry up and get out of her way and she cursed under her breath. The drops were starting to fall, she wasn’t going to make to the trip in the dry after all. She was just starting to run off the path onto the grass to skirt the car when the car door opened. From it emerged a tall, heavy built man, dressed in black, with black hair and beard. Black was the last thing Jessica remembered as he stepped in front of her and scooped her against his chest. He pressed her so hard Jessica could barely breathe, and what screams she could muster were muffled and went unheard.

She felt herself lifted into the car and felt his weight on top of her. Her heart was beating fast, pounding so hard she couldn’t hear what was being said, but she did feel the movement of the car just before she passed out.

For the fifth time Annie looked at the clock and calculated again the time it took to get to the shop and back. The rain was falling now, and there was the rumble of thunder in the distance. Annie had the towels and Jessica’s pyjamas ready in front of the heater so Jess could change and not miss any of her favourite show. The pan was ready on the stove waiting for the milk, she’d make milk coffee for Jess, the treat she saved for rainy days. She checked the clock again, and hoped Jess wasn’t lingering in a dry spot waiting for the rain to stop. By to look of the clouds, the rain had settled in for the night.

Feeling tense, fighting the growing anxiety that something was wrong, Annie busied herself around the kitchen, washing again the set of plates and tea cups from the daily afternoon cuppa with Mrs Reardon from next door. Perhaps that’s were Jess was, she thought, clutching at hope. It would at least give her something to do, so she reached for the phone and dialled Mrs Reardon’s number.

She chewed her bottom lip as she counted the rings. At the tenth ring, Mrs Reardon answered.

‘Hi Mrs Reardon, sorry to disturb you’ Annie gushed the line out before Mrs Reardon had a chance to say hello. ‘Would Jess be there at all?’

Mrs Reardon could hear the tension in Annie’s voice, so did not do her usual and chat on. ‘No’ was the reply, ‘I’ve not seen Jess at all today. Is everything alright?’

‘I’m sure it is, she’s just keeping out of the rain I suppose. Thought she may have been doing that with you’ Annie replied, trying to keep calm but blurting her words anyway. ‘Sorry to disturb you, I’ll let you get on’ and Annie hung up before Mrs Reardon could say more.

She thumbed through the phone book for the number of the corner shop. Mrs Bannerman the shop keeper said she’d not seen Jessica. Annie now was thinking the worst, the next call was to the police.

Chapter 2

‘Over here sarge’

In the scrub of the lower hills a search had been mounted. First they had searched the streets, knocking on doors, trying to find a trace of Jessica. It was as though she had vanished into thin air, no one had seen her that evening. The search had moved to the nearby scrub land that surrounded the little oasis of suburban sprawl.

Sergeant Brian McHenry, a solid gent in build and reputation, pushed his way through the low branches and ferns, watching where he put his feet, hoping he was not treading on anything that would be classed as evidence. He reached where the young constable was crouched, head bowed, over a pile of leave litter and dirt. From the pile a curling strand of blonde hair showed, lank and filthy with caked on mud. Sergeant McHenry placed one of his large hands on the constables shoulder.

‘Looks like another one’ he said, keeping his emotions in check. By now other policemen were circling where this great Scot, with greying red hair and moustache stood with his head bowed. He an effort he regained his composure, not that others would have noticed that it had slipped, and turned to bellow orders. ‘Get forensic and Doctor Jamieson here now, and keep you plod feet away, don’t trample the evidence to oblivion’. To himself he muttered ‘I want the evidence to nail this bastard by the balls’.


Annie sat in silence as she was told the news. Her husband, Jessica’s father, folded up in tears and grief. Annie was numb as she watched her husband fall apart, knew she should comfort him, but couldn’t find the will to move. Breathing was difficult enough sitting still. She closed her eyes and her ears. Her life was nothing, she’d not live here any more, she’d not stay with Allan, she’d pack her bags and go like she had never been. But not yet, for now she’d close her eyes and hoped this was all a bad dream.

Allan finally stopped his howling, though the tears still flowed of their own accord. He glared at his motionless wife, now humming a lullaby under her breath, her eyes closed, chewing her bottom lip, her arms across her breasts. Anger now merged with his grief and Allan stormed out of the house, slamming the door and ripping the screen door from it’s hinges.

Mrs Reardon stood in the kitchen, kettle in hand, watching the reactions of these two. She could do no more than make tea, and busied herself with the task.


In the autopsy laboratory McHenry stood a silent sentinel over Jessica’s little body. He noted the bruising over her young body, bite marks in her budding breasts, purple and yellow from the rough handling they‘d been subjected to. Scratch marks on her thighs, red marks around her neck, wrists and ankles. The smiling wound below her navel as the sick bastard sliced the womb and ovaries. Same as the others, he didn’t need the Medical Examiner to point out the indecencies she’d been subjected to, nor to match evidence with earlier cases. This was the same person, he’d struck five times before. Why didn’t parents listen to the warnings, there’d been enough of them on the TV. Did they think he and his boss Detective Inspector Mark Haywood stood before the media for the fun of having their face on public display?

He shook his head and sighed a deep and weary sigh. He could assign a constable to this, but couldn’t bring himself to subject them to the horror or the sight of the little girl. Some things stay with you no matter how tough and insulated you think you are. Nobody likes the death of a child, you don’t forget either. More than once McHenry had turned to whisky to drown out the images, and he felt that he’d be doing that again tonight.

Finally Michael Jamieson arrived, washed his hands, then prepared himself in gown and gloves, circling the body as he did so. He nodded to McHenry, who obliged by switching on the tape recorder. Sarah, his assistant arrived, and started taking the photographs as Michael described Jessica’s appearance and injuries, moving limbs to expose other areas of trauma, which Sarah photographed with barely a word. ‘How was this affecting her,’ thought McHenry. Michael as always was thorough in his examination, describing every scratch, bruise, the split lip, the swollen eye, the missing lock of hair, the raw area where her pubic hair had been plucked, the damage caused when she was raped, the estimated time of death, the hours of torture, the mutilation which thankfully (according to Michael) occurred after death.

‘Full report on your desk tomorrow’ Michael said, almost casually as he snapped the gloves off his hands. It was far from a casual comment, but Michael was on automatic, getting through the autopsy as quickly as possible, trying to not show how effected he was by the trauma this little girl had been subjected to. He apologised to her silently for the Y shaped scar and final indignity the examination put her battered body through. Normally he’d not be so sentimental, but recently he had begun to date Kate, and she had a 12 year old lass. He couldn’t help but make a connection and go through the scenario of ‘what if?’

Sarah was covering the body with a green sheet. Neither man noticed as she gently stroked Jessica’s hair, the only kindness and comfort she could offer the little girl.

Chapter 3

Mark Haywood towered over most people with his height, and had a nose that entered the room a minute before the rest of him, which, in less stressful times, was subjected to the police station humour - he can smell a criminal at a hundred paces, or a fart from the next town. The muscle of his youth now sagged with middle age, though he was still a wall of a man and this commanded respect. He was weary from too many hours spent going over files, statements, forensic and medical reports.

He had stared at the fresh young faces smiling from family photographs, young girls budding into womanhood. That was the only thing the same in these happy pictures, their age, their forming breasts. Angel, the first victim, was aboriginal, beautiful dark brown eyes and light brown skin. Her curling black hair was cut shoulder length and framed her face. In many cases such as these, the first victim is usually known by her attacker, but nothing was discovered, no connection made or suspected with anyone she or the family knew.

Sally, blonde and freckled, was the second victim. The raw, rushed attach of Angel was refined in Sally’s treatment, the bruises showed more easily, and with Sally’s fair skin, would show almost instantaneously.

Rachael looked a cheeky young lass, her mousy blonde hair reaching her shoulder blades. Her skin, also fair, showed an indent of a belt buckle on her stomach, which had been partially sliced away. Nothing special about the buckle, just a ordinary rectangular buckle. No special clues there. The medical report suggested that Rachael had been tied up for longer than the previous victims, a sign that the killer was becoming more confident and secure in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed. He was taking his time, extending the thrill, and unfortunately, extending the horror for poor Rachael.

Joanne and Becky too had been subjected to long hours of torment, rape and abuse. Each had been found in scrub land under a pile of dirt and leaves, a lock of hair protruding from the pile. It reminded Mark of an episode of Dennis the Menace, when he was hiding from bees, and curled himself into a ball with his hair sticking out. Strange things the mind thinks of, which would be okay if it had any relation to the case or provided some idea to identify the killer.

Now young Jessica, another photograph to add to the wall, victim number 6. Nothing seemed the link the girls, they were from different parts of the state ranging from Oatlands to New Town, they went to different schools, they were not involved in the same clubs or activities. Nothing seemed to match them to each other. Was the killer taking his chances and taking the girls at random, or had it been planned. The girls schedules were pretty much that same from week to week, but Jessica was taken on a walk to the shops, hardly planned. Just opportunistic this time? More questions than answers.

At the daily meeting of the squad, key points were discussed again, new ideas and any evidence was presented, key notes were added to the board, already full of previous notes. Nothing linked, nothing struck them as relevant. The poor families had been questioned and questioned again, nothing. Resources were stretched to the limit, the budget already spent. The superintendent was demanding results, and the day before Jessica’s body was found, had told Mark that the team would be scaled down. He was on borrowed time. The media was having a field day at his and his team’s expense.

McHenry poked his head around the door, ’Time for a pint gov” he said in his broadest Scottish accent. Mark allowed himself a small smile, grabbed his coat and followed McHenry, pausing only to switch off the light, trying to not look at the photos that stared blankly at him.

Chapter 4

‘Another report in the paper about those poor girls’ said George, standing over Jayne’s shoulder as she read the paper. Jayne nodded and sighed. She left the table and came back with the folder she had kept regarding the earlier girls and police statements. She had read over and over again the details, but had not been able to establish locations. Even if she had established a place to start, how would she be able to bring to the attention of the police anything she learnt, without them arresting her because she knew too many details. Today the reporter had focused on Jessica’s family, the father ranting about the inefficiency of the police, the mother looked distracted. In the background an old lady was making tea. The article also described how the local neighbourhood had rallied around the Sinclair’s, ‘Mrs Reardon makes tea for grief stricken parents’ read the caption.

Jayne stared at the photograph till she suddenly remembered where she knew the old lady from. She had purchased a car recently, the sales person using the pitch ‘driven by one careful little old lady’ and in this case that little old lady had been a Mrs Reardon. Jayne had checked the validity of the salesman’s pitch by lowering her barriers and checking the car for traces. Rising from the table she went to her desk and pulled out the sales slip. There on the receipt were the details of the previous owner, Mrs Reardon, and her address.

‘A place to start’ thought Jayne as she grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. How many Reardon’s could there been in Austin’s Ferry? Luckily only one.


Mrs Reardon was reluctant to open the door, sure that Jayne was a reporter. Her interest was little peaked when Jayne mentioned she now owned Mrs Reardon’s old car. Jayne patiently waited while Mrs Reardon pondered whether to let her in or not, finally curiosity overcame her and Jayne was admitted.

In typical old person fashion, every shelf, buffet space and window ledge was covered with ornaments and photo frames. Mrs Reardon had left the front curtains closed ‘to keep the reporters honest and their noses out of her business’, so the house was dim, only a couple of lamps switched on.

‘Tea?’ asked Mrs Reardon, already at the sink with kettle in hand.

‘Yes, thank you’ replied Jayne, as she stopped in front of a clay sculpture that looked vaguely like a garden gnome. She gently picked it up.

‘Jess made that from me’ said Mrs Reardon, frightening Jayne as she had not heard her approach.

‘Very nice’ said Jayne, her mind now distracted as she pondered how to broach the subject with Mrs Reardon. Best to just come out with it, she thought, sitting herself at the table and placing the gnome next to her cup of tea.

‘You’re not here about the car’ said Mrs Reardon, handing Jayne the biscuit tin. A statement, not a question.

Taking a breath, Jayne launched into why she was there, the talent she had, did Mrs Reardon believe in things like ghosts, mediums, and the such. Her skills burst forth in such a rush, Jayne was worried that she’d come over as a crazy person.

Mrs Reardon sat quietly, blinking rapidly. Jayne could see her mind at work, and finally sensed the moment when Mrs Reardon had decided yes. Jayne picked up the gnome, closed her eyes and lowered her barriers. At that moment George was with her, guiding her, helping her to focus on the paths following Jessica’s time imprint. The gnome was several years old, and Jayne couldn’t immediately reach Jessica’s last day. Finally the trace was established, and rising from the table, Jayne let herself be guided to the footpath and turned toward the corner shop.

The various shades of grey enveloped her, drifting in her path and swirling around her as she moved through them. There, a small shadow ‘looks like rain’, ‘run, stay dry’, ‘bloody car’ here the shadow’s outline became solid, easier to follow. Then PANIC. The force of that feeling hit Jayne so hard she dropped the gnome. No matter, the traced path was clear before her. She saw the detail of the car, a black holden commodore, silver trim on the door. The man, tall, dressed in black, black hair (dyed) black beard, shaved cheeks and upper lip. The smell of him, tobacco (like grandpa’s pipe), Brut aftershave and stale sweat from the jacket. The weight pushing against her, hard to breathe. The voice, muffled to Jessica’s ears echoed loud and clear to Jayne ’What are you waiting for - drive, now’ the voice booming in her ears. The reply, ‘yes dear’. Did she hear that right? ‘Yes dear’ - female? The shadows swarmed before Jayne, swallowing the car as it disappeared down the road, taking all trace of Jessica with it.

Mrs Reardon had followed Jayne, had seen her drop the gnome and heard the anguish of the cry Jayne gave as she lost the trace. She placed her hands on Jayne’s shoulders, and ignoring the few reporters camped on the lawn, steered Jayne back inside her home. She then plied Jayne with tea and whisky, and listened patiently as Jayne repeated what she saw.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Reardon, ’how do we tell Mr Haywood?’

Chapter 5

For an old stick Mrs Reardon was quite alert and straightforward, when she had to be. And in this instance, she was determined to keep her mind focussed on the matter at hand, telling Detective Inspector Mark Haywood and Sergeant Brian McHenry about Jayne, no deviation, no being distracted. She saw the look of tolerance pass between then, which raised her blood.

‘What other clues do you have?’ she demanded of them, and saw the look of tolerance turn to one of self dejection and self blame. She softened her words, ‘At least hear the girl out, she’s trying to be of help’.

Both men gave short, terse nods, Mark letting loose a sigh as Mrs Reardon rose and went to the front bedroom. Jayne had been listening from within, and had seen the look shared by the policemen. ‘It’ll be a waste of time’ she started to protest, as Mrs Reardon took her arm and guided her into the lounge. Sitting on the edge of a chair, Jayne briefly explained what she could do, and what she had seen. Policemen are a sceptical lot, dealing in facts leaves no room for other possibilities.

Both men eyed Jayne up, taking her measure in the way policemen do. The older man seeing through experienced eyes, the younger, through admiring eyes, though the look was quickly replaced by his scepticism. Both were wondering what sort of crank she was, assessing the truth to her. At least she had gone to the neighbour, not to the parents. Jayne’s figure tended to be rounded and full bodied, accentuating her attractiveness and giving the appearance of a caring, comfortable person to be with. Her long dark red hair fell in waves across her shoulders, a lock resting unperturbed on one of her ample breasts. Her round face and clear blue eyes showed concern, her right cheek slightly tucked in as she nervously ran her teeth over it.

They patiently listened before politely excusing themselves, thanking the ladies for their time. Jayne shrugged, she’d expected nothing more, relieved at their silent departure, with no passing comments about crazy women or lectures on wasting police time. Mrs Reardon cleared away the tea cups, her determination to remain focussed deserting her and she distracted herself by singing Bye, bye blackbird.


On the pavement Mark reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering one to McHenry, who accepted the offer. The glare they gave the reporters stopped them in their tracks, and left the pair alone, returning to the comfort of their cars. Retracing the route Jessica had walked, they enjoyed the quiet moment, puffing like chimneys. Both pondered the wisdom of following up a car seen in a vision, black holden commodore’s were common in this part of the world. The description of the man though was not so common.

‘It’s worth a try, stranger things have happened’ said Mark.

‘I’ll check it out’ said McHenry. ‘Don’t want the laughs to be on us’.


Back at the police station Mark detailed a young constable to check any traffic infringements on the day of the abductions for any black holdens in the area. It was a needle in a haystack, but better to leave no stone unturned. He could hear the constable grumbling about the assignment to passing colleagues as he left the office. A crap of an assignment, Mark couldn’t blame him for the show of bad grace. Accessing the computer files, Mark typed in the key features of the man Jayne had described. Two returns, but viewing the pictures, Mark was sceptical about the results. One was fat and didn’t look to have the strength to maintain the type of grip on a struggling Jessica that Jayne had described. The other might be a possibility, no harm in checking it out.

New Norfolk is the Hicksville of the Derwent Valley. Promoted as the gate way to the North (but only if you are going to the west coast of Tasmania) it is a area that mostly houses Centrelink customers, single parents, disability pensioners, aged pensioners. The place was so interbred that your cousin was also your uncle/father/brother. It was a town that thrived on its own bull shit and so insular it needed a torch to find the toilet. Outsiders were treated with suspicion, and if the locals decided they didn’t like them, made the poor sods life a misery till they left town. A place of simple people, a nuclear bomb on the town would do them the world of good and save the government a fortune.

Mark detested the place, detested the lack of interest in the local police, too integrated into the community to do the job of law enforcement. Selling dope and drugs was rife, the local taxi companies would even deliver it for you. Mark had been told that up north of the state was worse, he could hardly picture how.

Driving over the river (the best part of the place, very picturesque) towards Fairview, the government housing area he slowly drove up First Street (original name) to Dick Custer’s house. The front garden was a lawn of weeds, the grass long dead. The house needed painting, patches of the grey wood showed through the peeling paint. Down the driveway three cars were in various stages of dismantlement and seemed more like a junk yard than a suburban home. Mark dreaded to think what the inside looked like. As he opened the car door he noticed a man appear from beside the house. He was tall and solid, with dyed peroxide blonde hair, his goatee black and the beginnings of a moustache growing on his upper lip. In true New Norfolk fashion he wore ripped faded jeans and a T-shirt now a shade of grey where it had once been white, so full of holes it looked ready for the rag bag. No New Norfolk outfit would be complete without ug boots or moccasins, and this bloke was no exception.

Folding his arms across his chest the man yelled abuse wanting to know what Mark was looking at and to bugger off. Mark pulled his identification from his pocket, stated his name, but got to say no more without further insults about pigs and impossible bodily actions. By the time the man took a breathe Mark was standing in front of him, his height only just an advantage by a couple of inches. It wouldn’t take much for Mark to leap to the conclusion that he had his man, just on appearances and language alone he was ripe for arresting. Mark had checked the motor registry and knew this man owned a holden commodore though is was recorded as being red not black and years older than the version described by Jayne. With this junk yard, Mark had no doubt that the garage also doubled as a spray workshop, so colour was not a problem, but year of make was. Getting to the point of his questions, what car was owned, make, model, colour. Terse rude answers were provided, a snide smile growing ever wider on the man’s lips at the questions.

‘Hope you enjoyed your fishing trip, pig’ he said as Mark returned to his car. Mark stiffened at this, but kept going. He drove up the street, turned the car around. As he did this a dark blue commodore entered the street, wheels squealing as it did so, and turned into the driveway Mark had just visited. He waited a few moments before driving off, eying the number plate as he drove by. On the main road back to Hobart he radioed the number plate - it belonged to Liz Beck, First Street, New Norfolk. Perhaps the break they had been looking for.

McHenry had had no luck with his doorknock enquiries. Commodores are so common in Tasmania, it is a mainland joke that Tasmania is the state where commodores, in fact any old cars, come to die. Many of the old models belch smoke and fumes, are held together by rust and masking tape, so there is more truth than joke. Tasmania boasts being the clean green state, until you see the state of most of the cars, belching thick black smoke in an impression of Maxwell Smart’s smoke screen. Ironically, allot of these cars are driven by those most vocal about preserving wildlife and keeping Tasmania green, with no logging stickers on the bumpers and support green stickers in the windows.

McHenry extended this line of enquiry to include the areas of all the girls. Some said they saw a dark coloured holden, but could not be sure of the make, whether it was dark blue or black, some even saying dark green, and none could say with any certainty that the car they saw was on the day of the disappearances. As he removed his hat to get into the car a solitary rain drop landed in the middle of his balding patch. Cursing, McHenry ran his hand over it, then headed back to the station.

Chapter 6

Liz Beck many years before, had lodged several complaints about her then partner for domestic violence. The files had long since been archived, with only minimal information maintained at the station. She had no offences against her, though crossed matched as being the partner of many suspects questioned or arrested on charges such as theft, dealing drugs, violence and in one case rape. This partner had not been Dick Custer. No other records regarding Liz Beck being known by any other name. She lived amid criminal activity, but never arrested. Another path leading nowhere.

The look on McHenry’s face was all Mark needed to know that his enquiries had not been successful. Without a word, Mark got from his bottom desk drawer his bottle of scotch and poured them each a dram. As they drank, they again looked at the photographs, each with his thoughts churning over the evidence, the medical details, the bruised and battered bodies, the innocent and trusting smiles in the photographs.

Draining his glass, Mark rose and gathered a few of the bagged articles, a mixture of the girls clothing, pieces of jewellery or a trinket pinned to their clothes. ‘What do we have to lose but our sane reputation’ he said to McHenry.

“I’m game if you are sir’.


‘I said they were coming’ said George from the window as the door bell rang.

‘Keep your comments to yourself’ retorted Jayne as she opened her door to the policemen. ‘Gentlemen, come in’, she said, not giving them a chance to explain.

They looked uncomfortable as they shuffled to a seat at the kitchen table. Jayne made coffee, and listened as Mark asked her to give her impressions on the articles he handed her.

He nodded to her silent request to remove the items from the bags. McHenry sat back, arms folded across his chest and watched Jayne unpack the evidence bags. Without prompting, Jayne aligned the items in groups, six in all. She felt George rest a hand on her shoulder, and took a deep breath before opening herself to the horrors, pain and feelings of the girls. Hovering her hands over the items, she paused over one pile. Her stare became glazed as she peered through shadows, pin pointing the owner of the yellow cat broach.

Mark leant forward and clicked the record button on the portable tape recorder, it thumped lightly as he set it on the table. The movement and noise did not distract Jayne, as she surrounded herself in shadows.

From the grey a shadow grew darker, turning to black before defining it’s features. First the eyes, then the hair, then hands reaching forward. George’s arm reached between them, the hands rested on his arm. Jayne’s protector, and she thanked him for this. The hands squeezed George’s arm, then with a gasp the blackness fell away and before them stood Angel, panicked, afraid, her eyes wide with fear. The broach had been pinned it to the palm of her hand by the attacker, and imprinted upon it were all the gory details. Angel’s thoughts focussed on the brutality of her attack, the agonising pain as she was hit and twisted and torn to pieces as he penetrated her. The shame and humiliation and embarrassment of her breasts being constantly stroked and suckled, then squeezed and bruised and bitten. The weight of him, the smile on his face that bared crocked teeth and grew bigger as he was aroused and delighted in her torment. Secondary was the discomfort and pain of the straps that held her spread eagled across the floor, cold and wet, and hard. ‘I’m not here, I’m not here’ she chanted to herself, turning her head away and staring at the light shining from the broken board of the barn door, blotted out as someone paced outside.

‘I’m not here’

The shadow disintegrated before Jayne’s eyes, and Angel was there no more.

Jayne felt hands on her. Still in the fear and experience of Angel, she screamed and shoved them away. She was gasping for breath, her vision blurred between shades of grey and the colours of her kitchen, the green of the fern fronds, the blue of the walls, the yellow of the tiles, the silver of the taps. She spun, felt out of control before George reached in through the turmoil. Holding her face in his hands he stroked her cheek gently with his thumbs, encouraging Jayne to focus on him. As his words finally filtered through, the colours ceased to spin, and with a flash of blinding bright light Jayne was back in the kitchen, the overhead light too bright for her weary eyes. McHenry stood beside her resting a hand on her shoulder, Mark was holding her hands, massaging them gently. Both had worried looks on their faces. As Jayne’s breathing slowed to normal, they returned to their seats. Jayne’s reaction had scared them both.

‘Water’ croaked Jayne and Mark obliged. Gulping the cool liquid, Jayne felt relaxed and her barriers return. She also felt George’s arms embrace her, and it was only then that she felt able to tell them of what she had seen.

As vivid as Angel’s details had been about the attack, it had not shown anything of the abduction and very little of the man, heavy, dark clothing, crocked teeth, stubble. And someone pacing outside. There were two involved, and this only added to the woes of the policemen.

Chapter 7

Mark and McHenry stayed and questioned Jayne as if she were a witness not a crazy woman. Through their skilful probing Jayne was able to distance herself from Angel’s emotions and fear, and able to describe details of the surrounds, the old barn, the concrete floor, the hay in the corner just beyond her pinned hand. The old tools along the wall behind her head. The old tractor at the far end of the barn. The many shafts of light through holes in the wood and roof and through gaps in the walls between planks and joins.

The man’s face was a blur, Jayne could not get a clear picture of him, but felt by his size it was the same man she’d seen when tracing Jessica. Black was prominent in both sightings, his clothing, not his skin. No clues as to the other person at all, nothing about the abduction itself.

By the time they left, Jayne was exhausted. She stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, and still did not feel refreshed. She lay naked upon the bed with the ceiling fan on, felt the tingle of the cooling water on her skin, finally shivering with cold. She rolled herself into the doona and fell into a fitful sleep.


The ride back to the station was sombre and silent. Mediums had been used before to help with cases, but not openly, and not recently. Both men, before this day, would have scoffed at the idea and doubted anyone’s ability in ESP or the like. If someone had fed Jayne information, then she was a bloody good actress and marvellous and retaining information, she’d not slipped in their questioning and requestioning of what she visioned, and had been amazed at the accuracy in which she described Angel’s injuries, even down to the broach pinned to her hand.

At the office, they again compared Jayne’s details with that of the medical file and the evidence as listed. They matched in every detail. Mark ran his fingers through his light brown hair, uncaring that it now sat at untidy angles and spikes. He looked up at McHenry who responded to the look asking ‘Do we push her again, see what she gets from the others?’

‘I think we have to. At least we’ll know what to expect.’

Early the next morning they were again seated at Jayne’s kitchen table. Jayne had dragged the large club chair from her study and sat more comfortably, feeling the familiar leather at her back and the padded wings curve around her shoulders. It was high enough to rest her head back, which she did as she let down the barriers again, this time holding Sally’s torn shirt in the hope of seeing the abductors before the terror of the attack fully distorted and overrode all other memories.

As the shadows parted they showed Sally wandering through the trees that lined the highway, the avenue of honour, which had long ago lost its plaques naming the World War 1 soldier is was planted to honour and remember. It was autumn, and Sally loved to walk through the dry leaves and have them scrunch under her feet. As she stopped to cross the road she noticed a dark car in the distance, too far away to not allow her to cross, so she ran across the road and into the trees on the other side, where she resumed her dance. She was near the entrance to the driveway, her house nestled back in the hills half a kilometre from the road. She heard a car draw up beside her, then turn into her driveway. A dark blue commodore, a lady driving it. The lady was small, and Sally had wondered how she saw over the dashboard to drive.

‘Can you tell me where the oval is?’ the lady had asked. Her voice was quiet, Sally had not fully heard the question. She stepped closer and was about to ask her to repeat it when the back door was shoved open with such force it caught Sally on the hip as it opened, knocking her off balance. Before she could regain her balance she felt strong arms around her, then all was black, her face pushed into him so hard she felt his ribs. She couldn’t breath, her fists flailed but weren’t strong enough to cause him any concern. She felt one arm slip down below her bottom and she was lifted onto the seat of the car, the weight of the man on top of her, pinning her down. She had managed a quick gasp of air, but was again fighting for breath, feeling that her lungs would burst. The door was gently closed pressing against her feet. She then felt the car move, slowly, smoothly. No squealing of tyres, no fast acceleration.

Then she felt his hand touch her breast. She screamed, he laughed, the lady turned the radio on at full volume. The touch grew firmer, his weight shifted as he unzipped his jeans and started to rub himself against her bare thigh.

‘Not in here’ the woman yelled, ‘I’m not scrubbing your shit off my seats’. The rubbing stopped, instead he focussed on undoing her shirt, and when she whimpered, he punched her in the ribs, then squeezed her breast harder. His breathing was heavy, but he said no words, just breathed hot smelly breath onto her skin, her face, over her now exposed breasts. The car kept driving on, and on, and on.

End of part 1