Port Augusta, found the bodies in the boot of his car. And for final: your Mr Voss cracked up, poor bugger. Stands to reason, dunnit? With his wife running off, then pouf, his kid disappearing, then the bodies.”
And with the police accusing him of murder, Laura thought.
“Your Mr Voss is in the loony bin, poor bugger, so you can set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs White. He’s not the bloke who’s staring at your kid. Set a curfew, and tell her never to accept rides from strange men. All a parent can do.”
“Yes, you’re right of course, Sergeant Layton,” she said.
Jilly woke with a start. It was the middle of the night, quiet as death, so what had disturbed her? The French doors were open on to the verandah and a wisp of breeze barely nudged the humid air. Damp hot silence settled onto damp sheets. So why, Jilly asked herself, every nerve taut and her heart thumping like a rock band’s drum, why do I feel like I’m being watched? Then she saw the man beside her dresser, standing in shadow.
She screamed.
Fast as thought, he left on silent cat feet, and when Laura came running there was no sign, not a single telltale sign save Jilly’s fear.
“It was that man,” Jilly sobbed. “That creepy man was in my room.”
“God, Jilly!” Laura switched on the floodlights for verandah and back porch. She watched the light pick out the curve of lawn that ended in the bamboo. Nothing beyond the bamboo could be seen. “He’s gone now,” she said as calmly as she could. “There’s no one anywhere near the verandah.” She bolted the French doors and all the windows and pulled down every blind in the house and they huddled together on Laura’s bed in the sticky still heat. “It’s okay,” she said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “It’s okay. I’m afraid this is my fault, Jilly. I thought he was Mr Voss, you see. I told him he could come and sit in the garden. It was incredibly stupid.” Jilly was trembling like a live bird held under a cat’s tender paw. Laura said, to calm her: “I do think he’s probably harmless. I think he’s just a very sad man, you know. They say that’s all voyeurs do, they just look.”
“Call the police,” Jilly begged, still shaking.
“Yes,” Laura said. “Yes, of course.”
Laura called the police. We’ll send a squad car, the night dispatcher promised. And in due course — it seemed a very long time to Jilly and Laura — a squad car arrived. There were heavy footfalls on the verandah, and lines of torchlight raking the yard, and then a constable came to the door.
“No sign of an intruder, ma’am,” he said. “Uh, our records indicate you’ve got peeping Tom worries. Understand this is a second report?”
“It was the same man,” Laura explained. “The one who’s been staring at my daughter at the bus stop.”
“Yeah, well, generally harmless, these blokes. Let us know if anything happens.” Then he dropped his voice, confidentially. “Teenage girls, you know, ma’am, very, uh, vivid imaginations.” He dropped his voice still further and whispered: “Hormones.” Then he smiled. “Still, keep us informed.”
“Thank you, officer. I will.” Laura kept her anger tamped down. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” The sarcasm was lost on him, however.
“Any time,” he said cheerily. “Give the kid a hot cup of tea and settle her down. She’ll be right.”
“Bloody police,” she fumed to Jilly.
“Bloody useless police,” Jilly said.
“Yeah,” Laura grinned, cooling down a little. “Bloody hopeless cops.”
They did make tea. It felt good, Laura thought, to have your teenage daughter leaning against your shoulder, cuddling into your arms the way she did when you rocked her through tooth-cutting nights long ago. They sat on the bed with the blinds down, and a candle burning, and talked all night.
“Mum,” Jilly asked somewhere near dawn. “Do you think Dad misses me?”
“Of course he does. How could he not?”
“I mean, really misses me? Or, you know, just feels he should? Or just wants to bug you.”
Laura’s hand paused for a moment, then resumed its stroking of Jilly’s hair. “How do you mean, bug me?”
Jilly sighed. “Well, I phone his office, you know, sometimes, when I’m lonely. Reverse charge, from pay phones. I didn’t want to upset you. Do you mind?”
“It’s natural, Jilly. He’s your dad.”
“His secretary says Dad and Caroline want me to visit them in New York. She says there’s a Qantas ticket waiting in Sydney any time I go and pick it up.”
“I see.”
“But how come I only ever get to talk to his secretary? How come he never calls me? How come he never writes?”
“I don’t know, Jilly.”
“D’you think he really wants to see me?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“It’s a one-way ticket.” Jilly pleated the sheet between her fingers. “D’you think he’ll try to keep me there, Mum?”
“That’s a tough one, Jilly.” Laura sighed. “Your father’s rather used to getting his own way, and to being able to buy anything he wants. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love you. I know he does. ‘You’ll have to decide what you want to do.”
“Mum, I hardly have any friends at school. They think I’m weird. And I’m scared of that man in the red Toyota. Why’s he following me? Why’s he always watching? I’m even scared of the house now. I’m not even gonna feel safe in my own room.” She snuggled into Laura’s arms. “If I promise to come back from New York, will you mind if I go?”
It’s a steal, Laura thought. Her whole body felt like lead, but what could she say? The fears you could feel for a child were bottomless. They could fill the world. Suppose Jilly stayed and the man whom nobody knew … ? She’d never forgive herself. “I’ll miss you horribly,” she said. “But maybe it’s best for now.” Either way, she didn’t think she’d feel any safer.
It was done within days. Laura drove Jilly to the Blue Coach terminal for the deluxe bus to Sydney. Her father’s secretary was to meet her at the other end the next morning, take her to a hotel, put her on the plane for New York. It had all been arranged by Jilly’s father. “Please don’t stay around, Mum,” she said. “We’ll just get weepy if you do, and I hate goodbyes. I’ll be embarrassed for the whole trip.”
“It’s not the kind of thing people mind, Jilly,” Laura said. “Crying at goodbyes.” She wanted to say: I don’t feel safe when you’re out of my sight. I want to drive you to Sydney. I want to sit beside you on the bus, see you safely on to the plane. I want to make certain your father meets you at the airport, I don’t want any New York taxidrivers whisking you off to God knows where. I want to wrap you up in cotton wool.
“Yuck, I hate crying, I hate goodbyes,”
