Bloodwood Creek

Deeply disappointed, I stood before the reception desk at the police station wondering what to do next. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Fee I wouldn’t even be here, searching for my cousin, but it was no good telling the constable that. And Aunt Fee, being dead, no longer cared.

‘You’re quite sure?’ I asked, heaving a sigh. ‘Maybe there’s been an accident? You must know if ambulances attended a road victim – don’t they report that sort of thing?’

‘Look, Ms, er . . .’ The young man sneaked a look south where he must have made a note of my name, but I broke in impatiently.

‘It’s Fisher, Emily Fisher.’

‘Yes. Well, Ms Fisher, Darwin is a big place, with a large population. We cannot possibly know who might or might not be in the city. We’ve had no report on your cousin being missing—’

‘Well, I’m making one now,’ I interrupted, watching him roll his eyes in exasperation at my persistence. ‘Aspen was in Alice Springs. I know that for a fact. I found where she was staying and the manager at the motel identified her. And she said that Aspen definitely told her she was coming to Darwin. Well,’ I amended honestly, ‘was heading north and—’

‘You do know’—it was his turn to break in—‘north doesn’t necessarily mean Darwin? She could have stopped off in Tennant Creek or Katherine, or one of the national parks. If it comes to that,’ he said wearily, ‘who’s to say she didn’t cut back east from Tennant? She could be anywhere in Queensland by now. Just because you can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s miss­ing. Or that she’s in Darwin. Now, if there’s nothing else . . .’

‘There is,’ I said firmly. His attitude had nettled me. ‘I wish to make a Missing Persons declaration, or whatever you call it. It’s four months since Aspen vanished. Her flat’s been aban­doned, she hasn’t been in touch with friends or family in all that time, and if I had some way of checking – which you lot do – I’d wager her bank card hasn’t been used either. Give me a Missing Persons form to fill out, or take down the details and I’ll leave you in peace.’

I got my way in the end and an interview with a more senior police officer than the man on the front desk. For what seemed like the umpteenth time, I went through it all and produced the much-shown photo from my purse. Sergeant Conner, dressed in plain clothes – did that mean he was a detective? – pursed his lips in an appreciative whistle that he didn’t permit to escape.

‘Quite a looker then.’

‘Yes,’ I said shortly. Aspen was beautiful, always had been, a golden blonde with fairytale blue eyes and perfect features. ‘So that should make her easier for you to find, don’t you think?’

‘And you’re her cousin?’ His glance swept over me. ‘Yes, you’re very alike. How come the parents aren’t the ones look­ing for her?’

‘Her mother died last month, her father has dementia and she has no siblings. So I’m her closest relative apart from my parents, who are farmers and aren’t free to chase around the country after her.’

‘I see. I’ll need the parents’ names then, and an address.’

‘Why? The house is on the market and Uncle Rich is in an aged care facility. He doesn’t even remember having a daughter.’

‘All the same, Ms Fisher.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Crossly I supplied them. ‘Richmond and Fiona Tennant, late of 12 Crow Street, Grafton, New South Wales. Uncle Rich is in the Taylen Care Centre in Grafton. And no, Aspen didn’t live at home. She hasn’t done so for years.’

‘And she’s how old?’

‘Twenty-three in August.’ It was April now and as far as I had been able to ascertain with my limited resources, neither friends nor neighbours had set eyes on, or been in contact with, her since January. I told Sergeant Conner this, adding, ‘Surely that’s cause enough for worry?’

‘Not necessarily. She’s an adult with, presumably, her own vehicle – and if not, still free to go where she wishes. What’s her employment?’

I hesitated. ‘It changes. I couldn’t say at the moment. She was a model, then she worked in retail. I haven’t seen that much of her lately. She’d ring occasionally and we’d talk, but she was in Sydney and I work in the New England area of New South Wales. I’m a vet,’ I explained, ‘and I have a pretty full-on schedule. And before my degree I was studying with no time left for socialising. I guess we’ve sort of drifted apart over the last year or so.’

His gaze examined me. ‘Yet you’re the one looking for her. And come a long way from home to do it. What about a boy­friend? She must’ve had one, if not a dozen.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said baldly, adding after a moment as he continued to watch me and wait, ‘As I said, I haven’t seen much of her lately. So there’s only me to search.’ Besides, I added silently, my wretched aunt had as good as made finding her a deathbed command, which I couldn’t in all conscience ignore.

‘Well, we’ll keep an eye out and I’ll forward the details on to our outlying stations, but I have to be honest, Ms Fisher, if she’s chosen to drop out and she’s travelling, or even just living under another name, there’s not much chance of locating her.’

‘Why would she do that?’ I asked and he shrugged tiredly.

‘You’ve no idea the things people do. Or she could simply have married, or hooked up with someone, a good-looking woman like her. Did you think of that?’

I hadn’t. ‘She wouldn’t get married without telling me.’

‘You said yourself you’re no longer close.’

‘I just meant we hadn’t seen each other much lately, that’s all. We are close, but even sisters live separate lives, you know. And besides . . . marriage? Of course she’d tell me. We shared everything growing up. She’d never get married without tell­ing me.’

Even as I spoke I realised this wasn’t strictly true. We had shared when my much younger cousin was lonely, or fighting with her parents, or just lost in the insecurity and misery of adolescence. Four years her senior, I was her go-to comforterand problem-solver, the one who never had time herself to feel the drama Aspen seemed able to inject into every rebuff or set­back in her young life. When things were going well, though, she had no problem ignoring my existence for months at a time. As far as friendship went there was little reciprocity on her part. I had never really known the cause of her frequent moodiness. And all the girlish confidences in our relationship had come from me.

Aspen, my mother had once tartly told me, had the prob­lems of the beautiful – life was made so easy for them that every little disappointment they suffered became a three-act drama eclipsing all else. There may well have been something in that, I thought. On the other hand, my mother was younger, plainer and had married a poorer man than Aunt Fee had, and as I grew older I sometimes wondered if an unadmitted jeal­ousy, or the pique of the moment, had prompted this diagnosis.

But Aspen was my cousin, and I knew that her childhood, compared to mine, had been one of benign neglect. Aunt Fee had been a socialite to whom a young child seemed a hindrance. There had been no shortage of money or advantages – in fact she had showered her daughter with them, but always at arm’s length. A succession of live-in au pairs had delivered the young Aspen to music and ballet and tennis lessons, and had overseen her homework and provided her meals. Uncle Rich had been the unseen presence shoring up their entitled world with a constant supply of money to pay for it all. He had worked all hours and was seldom home. I remembered Aspen saying bitterly once her father was just a voice in the night; she wouldn’t recognise him if they ever chanced to pass each other in the street. Even allowing for teenage exaggeration this carried the ring of truth, making me mindful of my own luck in the parents stakes. Mum mightn’t have been as pretty as my aunt, and Dad was a simple, hardworking farmer, but they had always been there for my brother and me – and still were.

Thanking the sergeant, I exited the police station for the bright humidity of the outside world. For me, born and raised in the northern range of the New England country, Darwin in April was hot. I donned sunglasses against the glare and wondered what to do next. I had taken a fortnight’s leave from the Armidale veterinary practice where I worked, flying and bussing it via Alice Springs to the Top End only to draw a blank in my search. Naively I had imagined Darwin as a small town and that the first hotel, or possibly the first cafe, I entered would hold Aspen. I had seriously underestimated the city’s size and population and the hopelessness of my quest was suddenly driven home to me.

My mother, well aware of Aunt Fee’s failings, had said, ‘It was most unfair of Fiona to lay that on you, Emily. You’re not your cousin’s guardian. They’ve both always expected too much of you in that regard. It’s nothing less than blackmail, playing on your better nature. Aspen’s old enough now to take responsibility for herself. Something she’s never done in her life.’

That was certainly true of both mother and daughter, but the advice hadn’t stilled my nagging conscience. I had won­dered if Aspen even knew that her mother had died. If she’d been out of contact since January, as Aunt Fee’s directive had maintained, it was highly possible she didn’t. They had never seemed particularly close, so would she even care? I couldn’t begin to guess. Despite my assertion to the sergeant, I had had very little interaction with my cousin since she had left home at seventeen to become the face of the big department stores, modelling clothes and cosmetics for those who could afford the luxuries of life.

We had met, more by chance than design, only occasionally since. Most of our news of Aspen had come through effusive missives from Aunt Fee, suddenly proud to be the parent of her much-photographed daughter.

Mum had not been impressed. ‘I notice she wasn’t the least bit interested when you were modelling,’ she said, snorting as she flicked disdainfully at the letter. ‘To read that, you’d think the girl had invented penicillin or something.’

‘Your green eyes are showing, Mum,’ I had chided. ‘I was just a catalogue model, and there’s nothing fancy about that. You could see me on the back of a bus, not the cover of Vogue. And you have to admit that Aspen is truly gorgeous, and more photogenic than I am. She’d never have got the contract in New York if she wasn’t good at what she does.’

‘So are you gorgeous, love,’ Mum had replied. ‘But hand­some is as handsome does – and looks don’t last forever, as Aspen will discover. Never forget that you are doing some­thing worthwhile with your life and that’s far more important.’

And so when I’d rung home to tell them I was going to the Territory and why, Mum’s opinion of her sister and niece hadn’t changed, and Dad, who was the silent rock of our family and seldom ventured opinions outside the farm, had surprisingly agreed with her. ‘You’ve no obligation to either of ’em, Emily. If you’ve time off, come home, love. We all miss you.’ The ‘all’ included the dogs and the horses, I knew, and it was very tempting to picture myself back at the old place, riding across the beautiful range country away from city din and bustle, but the nagging memories of a younger, more dependent Aspen kept intruding.

I sighed into the phone. ‘I can’t, Dad. But this shouldn’t take more than a few days. Lord knows what she’s doing, but once I’ve seen her I’ll be back like a shot. She probably doesn’t even know Aunt Fee’s dead.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ he rumbled. ‘All right, love. We’ll see you when we see you,’ he said, then adding as he always did, ‘Stay in touch.’

‘I will. Love you, Dad. Bye.’