milk.
‘Nah but it’s the dirt under his nails,’ the heavily made-up colourist called Tania says. ‘My friend Jan says her mate Gabe, Gabriel but they call him Gabe, which is a cool name I reckon, was one of the cops who first got there like, and Jan says Gabe says his partner totally saw dirt under that Alistair Robertson’s nails and they were just off the plane and why would there be dirt, there just wouldn’t be, and it’s not like he has a dirty fingernail kinda job, is it, and anyway he would have washed them before the flight.’
How this girl doesn’t need to take a very deep breath after this I will never know. I pour the milk into the coffee cups and sprinkle chocolate on top.
‘You reckon he did it?’ the (probably) gay hairdresser called Johan asks Tania.
‘Nah, but well I’m just sayin’, why would he have dirt under his nails unless he was like burying a kid in the ground or something? He says he fell over but I think it’s a crock of shit.’
‘That’s eight dollars forty, thanks,’ I say, putting the lids on the takeaway cups.
‘And also on the news she looked so out of it . . .’ She hands me ten dollars without pausing. ‘Like on drugs I reckon, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she was a junkie and maybe forgot . . . thanks . . .’ I’ve given her the change and they’re walking towards the door, coffees in hand. ‘. . . to feed him and so he goes and buries him and that’s why he’s got dirt under . . .’
My mobile rings as the door closes behind them. It’s Chloe’s school. She didn’t make it further than the top step. The café owner, Giuseppe, is a kind man, and he lets me go straight home.
She’s not there. I leave text and voice messages on her mobile then start phoning everyone I know who she knows. I’m about to scour the streets when she comes in and makes straight for her room.
‘Where were you? Chloe, come back here! I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been?’
‘At an internet café in Brunswick.’ She tries to shut her door but I grab it in time.
‘What did I tell you last night?’
She turns and looks at me. ‘Nothing useful. No one’s saying or doing anything useful. Tomorrow it’ll be too late. It’ll be too fucking late.’
It’s not the time to pick her up on the swearing. ‘What were you doing at the internet café?’
‘I set up a Twitter account and a Facebook page and put his photo and all the facts I know on them. A few people have already done blogs and pages and Twitter hashtags but they’re all idiots, their details are all wrong, full of bullshit. Someone who knows the facts should be doing it, someone who cares. So that’s what I did at the café this morning and you wouldn’t believe how many people have messaged me already. Point Lonsdale residents, the guy from the milk bar, and a cop, I reckon, although he or she would never admit it to me. After that I phoned the police in Geelong and spoke to Detective Phan who’s working on the case and I asked him exactly what they were doing.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me anything so I insisted on speaking to his boss, who’s called Elaine Larson, and she spoke all softly softly to me as if I was a five-year-old with learning difficulties. She said they were doing everything they could but she wouldn’t tell me exactly what and accused me of being rude. I asked if I could do an appeal on television and she said she’d have to ask you and Dad so I phoned Channel 10 and David Papadopoulos will be here with a cameraman any minute.’
It’s hard to be mad when you’re impressed. I need time to think this through, but a van’s parking in the drive already. ‘What are you going to say?’ I ask her as she changes into the T-shirt she somehow managed to get printed on the way home. FIND NOAH is in thick black lettering at the top. Underneath is a photo of her nondescript baby brother.
‘I’m just going to ask for help,’ she says,
‘Nah but it’s the dirt under his nails,’ the heavily made-up colourist called Tania says. ‘My friend Jan says her mate Gabe, Gabriel but they call him Gabe, which is a cool name I reckon, was one of the cops who first got there like, and Jan says Gabe says his partner totally saw dirt under that Alistair Robertson’s nails and they were just off the plane and why would there be dirt, there just wouldn’t be, and it’s not like he has a dirty fingernail kinda job, is it, and anyway he would have washed them before the flight.’
How this girl doesn’t need to take a very deep breath after this I will never know. I pour the milk into the coffee cups and sprinkle chocolate on top.
‘You reckon he did it?’ the (probably) gay hairdresser called Johan asks Tania.
‘Nah, but well I’m just sayin’, why would he have dirt under his nails unless he was like burying a kid in the ground or something? He says he fell over but I think it’s a crock of shit.’
‘That’s eight dollars forty, thanks,’ I say, putting the lids on the takeaway cups.
‘And also on the news she looked so out of it . . .’ She hands me ten dollars without pausing. ‘Like on drugs I reckon, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she was a junkie and maybe forgot . . . thanks . . .’ I’ve given her the change and they’re walking towards the door, coffees in hand. ‘. . . to feed him and so he goes and buries him and that’s why he’s got dirt under . . .’
My mobile rings as the door closes behind them. It’s Chloe’s school. She didn’t make it further than the top step. The café owner, Giuseppe, is a kind man, and he lets me go straight home.
She’s not there. I leave text and voice messages on her mobile then start phoning everyone I know who she knows. I’m about to scour the streets when she comes in and makes straight for her room.
‘Where were you? Chloe, come back here! I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been?’
‘At an internet café in Brunswick.’ She tries to shut her door but I grab it in time.
‘What did I tell you last night?’
She turns and looks at me. ‘Nothing useful. No one’s saying or doing anything useful. Tomorrow it’ll be too late. It’ll be too fucking late.’
It’s not the time to pick her up on the swearing. ‘What were you doing at the internet café?’
‘I set up a Twitter account and a Facebook page and put his photo and all the facts I know on them. A few people have already done blogs and pages and Twitter hashtags but they’re all idiots, their details are all wrong, full of bullshit. Someone who knows the facts should be doing it, someone who cares. So that’s what I did at the café this morning and you wouldn’t believe how many people have messaged me already. Point Lonsdale residents, the guy from the milk bar, and a cop, I reckon, although he or she would never admit it to me. After that I phoned the police in Geelong and spoke to Detective Phan who’s working on the case and I asked him exactly what they were doing.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me anything so I insisted on speaking to his boss, who’s called Elaine Larson, and she spoke all softly softly to me as if I was a five-year-old with learning difficulties. She said they were doing everything they could but she wouldn’t tell me exactly what and accused me of being rude. I asked if I could do an appeal on television and she said she’d have to ask you and Dad so I phoned Channel 10 and David Papadopoulos will be here with a cameraman any minute.’
It’s hard to be mad when you’re impressed. I need time to think this through, but a van’s parking in the drive already. ‘What are you going to say?’ I ask her as she changes into the T-shirt she somehow managed to get printed on the way home. FIND NOAH is in thick black lettering at the top. Underneath is a photo of her nondescript baby brother.
‘I’m just going to ask for help,’ she says,
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