The Survivors(74)

‘What kind of things?’

Mia turned her phone so he could see the screen. A girl smiled out from a news piece on the screen. Not Bronte, as Kieran had maybe expected, but Gabby.

‘The article’s an old one. From the tenth anniversary,’ she said in answer to his surprise. She stood to take Audrey. ‘Nothing new. I don’t know. It was just everything last night, listening to Bronte’s mum.’

‘I saw Trish Birch out walking just now,’ Kieran said.

‘Really? She didn’t have another backpack, did she?’

‘No. But it sounds like she’s thrown loads of them in over the years. She wasn’t even sure how many.’ Kieran mixed up a bottle of formula for Audrey and handed it to Mia as she sat back down. ‘She reckons two of them have washed back, like Gabby’s did.’

‘Two.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘So, not many.’

‘Not zero, though.’

‘No, that’s true.’

Mia was quiet.

‘What’s up?’ he said.

‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’ Mia began to feed Audrey. ‘God, I was so relieved when Gabby’s bag was found washed up. I thought they were going to keep calling me and my parents into the police station every day until – well, who knows when? When I heard they’d found her bag –’ She looked back at the girl’s picture. ‘I was glad, honestly. I was happy it was over, more than I was sad about what had happened to her.’ Mia’s gaze slid to her daughter. ‘I mean, what does that say about me? She was my best friend.’

‘Nothing.’ Kieran sat down next to her. ‘You were fourteen years old. It doesn’t say anything.’

‘Maybe.’ Mia didn’t sound convinced. ‘But –’

She stopped as they both heard the hall floorboards creak. The kitchen door opened and Verity came in, dark circles under her eyes. Mia reached out and swiped her thumb across her phone screen and Gabby disappeared.

‘Morning,’ Verity said, putting on the kettle.

‘Dad okay?’

‘About the same.’ Verity reached for a mug and cleared a space on the counter to set it down. She picked up her reading glasses and a creased piece of paper. It was one of the leaflets from the meeting, Kieran could see. He watched as she turned it over in her hand, looking at Bronte’s missing camera and laptop. The kettle boiled, and she set the leaflet aside.

‘Hey, did Pendlebury say anything to you last night?’ Kieran asked as Verity poured boiling water into her mug.

‘When?’

‘When she was helping you with Dad after the meeting. I thought you were talking.’

Verity found a spoon and stirred. ‘She just asked how the packing for the move was going.’

‘That was it?’

‘It was a thirty-second conversation, Kieran.’

Kieran looked around the kitchen at the stacks of half-filled boxes. Someone – Brian, he very much hoped – appeared to have packed a glass of milk in a box by Kieran’s feet. He could see the glass lying on its side now against the bottom, the yellowing stain soaking the cardboard. He looked back at the leaflet on the counter, the line where Pendlebury had folded the paper still visible.

‘Do you think there’s any reason she asked that, Mum?’

‘Like what?’ Verity’s face was firmly placid. ‘I hear she’s been asking a lot of people all sorts of things.’

‘I suppose,’ Kieran said. ‘But –’

Verity simply waited.

Kieran shrugged. ‘After that meeting, a lot of people were trying to talk to her. But she found time to ask you about the move?’

‘Or she found time to help a confused man on the steps and make a few seconds’ worth of small talk while she did it.’ Verity picked up her coffee. ‘I’m going to take my yoga mat outside, if either of you need anything.’

Kieran and Mia watched her leave.

‘She needs to be careful,’ he said as they heard the back door close. He stood up to head to the shower. ‘We don’t want Pendlebury to start thinking things about Dad.’

Mia turned back to her phone screen. ‘For what it’s worth, I think your mum’s smart enough to know that.’

The morning sun was brighter by the time they got both themselves and Audrey organised enough to leave the house. They walked through town towards the cliff path, slowing as they approached Wetherby House. The ruined garden looked even worse than Kieran remembered, if that were possible. A couple more trees had been felled, he thought, and the soil in the exposed trenches looked cakey and dry.

Mia’s gaze landed on a dirty white ute parked directly on the street outside, taking up what could have been two spots. Gardening equipment was stacked in the tray at the back.

‘Is that Ash’s?’ she said, squinting at the logo on the side. ‘Trying to piss off G.R. Barlin?’

‘Yeah, looks like it,’ Kieran said, although he couldn’t see Ash or his dog anywhere. He and Mia stopped and leaned on the fence of Wetherby House. Kieran couldn’t be sure, but it had a settled stillness that made him feel no-one was home.

‘Lucky George can write better than he landscapes,’ Mia said, then sighed as a cry of protest rose from the stationary pram. ‘Let’s keep moving. What did George make of last night?’