The Survivors(69)

Bronte liked to have sex on the beach at night. An anonymous grey avatar insisted so. He – she? – knew someone at the gym who had seen her down there with a guy last month. Kieran had no idea if that were true. Judging by the responses, no-one else did either. He looked around the crowded room, trying to match faces with some of the comments. He didn’t know where to start.

One reply had been deleted.

The grey avatar still remained but the comment box was shaded out. This comment by Blainey82 has been removed for violating EBOCH guidelines.

Kieran looked at it for a minute, then moved on. Directly below, Mia’s old music teacher Theresa Hartley had chosen to weigh in again, commenting on the original post.

I don’t believe for a minute Bronte was like that. My granddaughter says she was one of the nicest girls at university. You can tell from this, she had written, and posted a website link. Her comment had in turn prompted a string of responses ranging from patient to furious, informing Theresa that it was entirely possible to be a nice girl while also enjoying consensual sex in a semi-secluded place.

Curious, Kieran clicked on Theresa’s link. It went through to a page on a social media site that Kieran had heard of, but had felt too old and jaded to get to grips with every time he’d tried to check it out. It was an online tribute to Bronte, where visitors – mostly her fellow art students in Canberra from what Kieran could tell – had put up pictures and video messages. Some had shared sketches and paintings of Bronte, and quite a few had posted pictures Bronte had drawn for them. I can’t believe she’s gone, one girl had written. Theresa’s granddaughter, Kieran guessed by the surname.

Kieran felt Mia touch his arm. She was still looking at the EBOCH page. She twisted her screen so only he could see and subtly tapped a post with her nail.

Brian Elliott was seen on the beach the night Bronte Laidler was killed. Kieran felt his chest go tight. He checked the avatar. Anonymous and grey, of course. Not even a proper nickname, just a string of numbers. He walks around at night.

Don’t, a reply said. He’s got dementia.

He was also the last one seen with Gabby Birch. Remember that?

Kieran felt sick. Across the room, he could see Julian was now looking at his own phone, tapping at the screen.

‘It could have been anyone,’ Mia whispered, reading his mind. ‘Liam will have told people about your dad wandering. Anyone could have written that.’

‘That doesn’t exactly make it better,’ Kieran said, glancing over to where Verity appeared to be trying to talk Brian into staying seated.

‘No, but –’ Mia broke off as there was a movement behind them and the collective attention of the room was immediately focused on the door.

Sergeant Renn came in first and nodded to Pendlebury, their faces identically hard. There was a hush and a stillness in which it seemed for a moment like no-one else was coming. Renn half turned, then Bronte’s parents appeared at the door. Pendlebury had cleared a route and every eye in the place followed them on the long journey from the back of the room to the front.

They were civil servants up in Canberra, Kieran remembered Olivia saying, and they dressed like it. They had changed clothes since the news bulletin and both looked as though they could be on their way to a business breakfast meeting, in crisp shirts and suit material. Kieran imagined them in their hotel room, trying to decide what to wear. Silently taking turns to use the wobbly ironing board. What was appropriate for speaking on behalf of their dead daughter? Nothing, was the answer. Or anything. Kieran guessed they had fallen back on the familiar clothes that at least in their normal lives offered some sense of being in control.

Sergeant Renn remained standing as the other three took their seats. He picked up the microphone from the table and fiddled with the button.

‘Can everyone hear me all right?’ There was an affirmative murmur in the room. ‘Right. Well, thanks for coming, everyone. I think most of you know me. I’m Sergeant Chris Renn, I’ve worked here in Evelyn Bay for close to thirteen years. And this is my colleague from Hobart –’ He gestured down the table. ‘– Detective Inspector Sue Pendlebury, who some of you will have seen around with her team these past few days.’

Renn checked his notes on the table.

‘You’re all aware of the tragic event on Saturday night involving Bronte Laidler, who a lot of us had come to know through her job at the Surf and Turf. Bronte hadn’t been with us long but had quickly become a popular face around here, and I know how shaken we’ve all been by what’s happened. Tonight we have with us Bronte’s parents, Nick and Andrea Laidler, who join us from Canberra.’ Renn turned to the couple, who had both been staring out at the sea of faces. They blinked to hear their names mentioned. ‘We’re very sorry you’re here under such sad circumstances, but our community welcomes you.’

Bronte’s father inclined his head, short and sharp, while her mother mouthed something, tight-lipped. Thank you.

Renn turned back to the crowd. ‘We know this is a difficult time and naturally raises a lot of questions, but we want to assure you that we are out there speaking to a lot of you, pursuing a number of lines of –’

There was an indistinct murmur from somewhere to the left of the room and Renn frowned and stumbled, his train of thought broken.

‘Ah –’ He checked his notes. ‘Yeah. We’re pursuing a number –’