The Survivors(70)

‘I said, why are you harassing the locals, Chris, mate?’ There was nothing indistinct about the words this time, and every face turned to look. Kieran could see the speaker now. A bloke in his forties, with the body of a surfer under his collared checked shirt. His hand was resting on the shoulder of a boy of about thirteen who could only have been his son. Kieran recognised the man. Heath something. He ran the Nippers lifesaving program with Julian.

‘We’re not taking questions now, Heath, mate.’ Renn’s voice was firm. ‘Talk to me later.’

‘Yeah, okay, but I’m just asking why you’re wasting all this time talking to us, when we all know whoever did this has been back on the mainland for days.’ Heath nodded to Bronte’s parents, whose faces were frozen. ‘Look, I’m very sorry for what happened to your daughter. Believe me, I am. I’ve got kids of my own.’ Heath lifted his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘But we – us, here – we didn’t do this to you. And I want to know, Chris, what I’m supposed to tell my boy when he comes home asking why his mate’s dads are being hassled by the police?’

‘How about you tell him that’s what happens when someone is harmed? People get hassled.’ Renn didn’t bother to use the microphone this time. He held Heath’s gaze, then looked around the gathering. ‘Now, this is your community. Mine too. And I am happy for you all to sit here and listen to what’s being said. But let’s have some basic respect, yeah?’ He waited, then turned back to his notes. ‘Right.’

The rest of Renn’s introductory wrap-up was brisk and, Kieran suspected, even shorter than he’d planned, and then it was Pendlebury’s turn. She stood and tapped the keyboard of the laptop and the photos of Bronte disappeared.

‘Please take a look at the screen.’ She tapped the keys again and two fresh images came up.

A camera. And a laptop.

Kieran’s eyes snapped to Mia’s – Laptop, too? she mouthed – and they both immediately glanced over at Olivia. The back of her head was perfectly still. Ash, partly in profile, was staring at the screen, his hand slack now against the back of her chair.

‘These are two items of interest,’ Pendlebury continued, pointing to the pictures. The images were catalogue shots, with close-up inserts of the branding. Pendlebury tapped the relevant identifiers on each, holding her finger against the screen until she was sure she had the audience’s attention. ‘Take note, please, of the make, here and here, and the model numbers – here, here. There will be fliers at the door on your way out with this information. I ask that you please take one or more, and pass them on to your neighbours who aren’t here tonight.’

Pendlebury turned back to the screen. Bronte’s parents were both staring at the table.

‘We believe these two items belonged to Bronte Laidler,’ Pendlebury said. ‘We have not been able to trace them, and believe they may have been discarded locally. We are asking you to check your properties, your bins, your sheds, your gardens, your walking trails. Anywhere that these items could have been disposed of hastily.’

There was a muted muttering at that, which Pendlebury chose to ignore. But Kieran guessed she knew it as well as every person in that room. To get rid of something in Evelyn Bay, all you had to do was step out of your back door and there were a million litres of water waiting to take it off your hands. Although – Kieran couldn’t help but glance at Trish Birch – not always. Sometimes things came back, apparently.

Pendlebury pointed out some distinct features of both the camera and laptop, leaving the pictures up for the TV cameraman to get his shot while the journalist scribbled the details. She repeated the hotline number, tapped the keyboard once more, and the images of Bronte returned.

She made eye contact with Renn, and they both looked at the Laidlers. Pendlebury leaned in and exchanged a few whispered words with them, then straightened.

‘Bronte’s parents, Nick and Andrea, will now make a statement. They will not be taking any questions tonight. Please direct queries or information to me or to Sergeant Renn afterwards.’

Pendlebury passed the microphone to Bronte’s parents, who were getting to their feet. They stood straight-backed and grim-faced in their sharp suits, Bronte’s father handling the microphone with more ease than either Renn or Pendlebury had. He was wearing a tie, which made it the only one in the room.

Kieran looked at them standing side by side in the library’s tired function room, in front of photos of their late daughter. They looked out of place, he thought. Quite literally, as though they didn’t belong here. This wasn’t their life, he could almost see them thinking. This wasn’t happening to them.

Nick Laidler put his phone on the table and tapped the screen once. His head was bowed and he took a deep breath before looking up.

‘Bronte was our only child,’ he said. His volume was perfectly calibrated for the microphone and the size of the room, and he spoke with the clear measured pace of someone used to addressing groups. He referred briefly to the notes on his phone. ‘She was a joyous, much-loved little girl who grew into a beautiful, talented woman. Bronte was a keen artist and a friend to many. She was –’

Nick paused as his wife suddenly reached out and lightly touched her fingers to his suit sleeve. He glanced down at her hand then up at her face. Andrea Laidler had been standing perfectly still as her husband spoke, but her eyes had been moving. She was looking, Kieran realised now, at every face in the crowd in turn. At one, then the next, then the next, then the next.