The tension between her parents had eased by the time she joined them in the large open plan kitchen which merged into the family area. Her father was crunching cereal, her mother reading the newspaper horoscope.

‘Huh,’ Miranda scoffed as she read her stars aloud. ‘A work colleague might surprise you.’ Maybe it means Julian will at last come up with the photos for the catalogue. God know, he’s had the proofs for weeks. I can’t stall Hartley Macs for much longer. Before we know it, they’ll be hassling me for the autumn shots.’

‘Sack him,’ Christopher said dispassionately. ‘He’s already got you into enough trouble as it is.’

‘That’s easier said than done. Good photographers are almost impossible to find these days.’

‘Do you need a lift to work?’

‘No, I’m fine; Julian’s picking me up. Or so he said.’ She glanced at the watch on her wrist. ‘He’s late of course. I can’t believe how long the panel beaters are taking with my car. It was only the smallest of dents.’

Miranda rattled the newspaper and Emma caught a glimpse of the headlines, something about a missing girl. The few words she read made her breath jam in her chest. She cocked her head and tried unsuccessfully to peer at the front of the paper as it quivered in her mother’s hands above her breakfast grapefruit.

Then the phone rang.

‘Always at meal times, guaranteed,’ Christopher grumbled as he picked up the phone, quickly switching to the unctuous cheer of his bedside manner. Emma had once overheard one of his professional colleagues saying that despite what he might once have been, these days Christopher Breightling had the bedside manner of a vet. Emma didn’t understand the comment; vets were usually nice.

He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, certainly, here she is.’ He held the phone out to Emma without looking at her, his attention already back on his breakfast.

‘Hello Emma, my name’s Stephanie Hooper,’ the voice on the end of the phone said. ‘I live quite close to you in Hill View Terrace. I’ve been speaking to Mrs Carlyle—apparently you babysit her twins when she goes shopping.’

‘Uh, yes, that’s right,’ Emma said.

‘Mrs Carlyle is very impressed with you and thought you might be looking for more babysitting work. I was wondering if you might be interested in doing some after-school care for me? I have a six year old daughter who goes to your school. It would be a case of walking her home from school and staying with her until her father or I get home. It’ll be regular for a week or so until my mother comes back from holiday, then just occasionally after that. I’m a police officer, so my work hours are a bit erratic.’

‘I remember you, you’re the lady who talked to us at school the other day.’

‘That’s right.’

Emma could hear the smile in the woman’s voice. ‘Cool.’ ‘You’d better check with your parents then, make sure it’s okay.’

‘Sure.’ Emma put her hand over the receiver and left it there for a moment. Her mother got up from the table to make herself another cup of tea. Taking advantage of her turned back, Christopher took the paper and spread it open at the finance pages, now obscuring the headlines completely.

‘Yes, they said it would be fine,’ Emma said into the phone after a suitable lull. ‘When shall I start?’

‘Come over to my place after school today to meet Izzy, number 25 Hill View terrace. We can take it from there.’

Forgetting the disturbing newspaper headline for a moment, Emma gave an excited little jump, which neither of her parents noticed. Every job meant more money for Josef and the Cause, more freedom and another step towards getting away from this place. Her toast popped and she smothered it in butter and lashings of honey. She was ready to make her escape when her mother said, ‘You’re not going to school dressed like that are you?’

Emma shrugged, causing her toast to fall from the plate and land honey side down on the faux marble floor.

‘Please, let’s not start again, Miranda,’ Christopher said with a long sigh. ‘Just let her wear what she likes.’

‘But she dresses like that just to spite me, she knows it upsets me. She knows it, but still she goes to school dressed like a tramp.’

‘The way kids dress these days is no reflection on their upbringing. Everyone knows Emma comes from a good home, that I have money.’

Miranda’s sigh was worthy of Greek tragedy. ‘Well I certainly haven’t seen much of your money recently. Besides, this isn’t only about you, or only about money, Christopher.’

‘Don’t worry, Miranda,’ Emma said as she mopped up the honey from the faux marble tiles. ‘Not too many people know I’m your daughter—it’s not something I care to advertise.’

‘For heaven’s sake, stop calling me by my first name!’

Emma glanced at her father. He looked up from his paper, met her eye and gave her a wink.

The doorbell rang but no one moved to answer it. Julian Holdsworth, Miranda’s photographer, let himself in and wandered through the house to the family room just as Emma was making her way back upstairs. One glance at his beaming face and droopy blond noodle of a moustache made her quicken her steps. ‘How’s my gorgeous girl then?’ he called up to her. The look he gave her as she beat her retreat made her relieved she wasn’t wearing a skirt. She pretended she hadn’t heard him and closed her bedroom door.

The voices had long since gone from downstairs, her parents and Julian having left for work. Emma looked at her watch; she still had half an hour before she was due at school.

The breakfast table had been left in disarray for the housekeeper. The paper lay where her father had left it, the finance pages spread across the dirty plates. She stopped for a moment, not daring to touch it. As she downed the half finished glass of orange juice her mother had left she thought how unusual it was for Miranda to leave any. The pervert at the modelling agency and mention of the police must really have left her rattled. The slippery smart of the vodka gave her the courage she needed to turn to the front page of the paper: ‘Missing girl’s body found at Midland building site.’

Another victim, another miserable story and this one with an ending of the worst kind. She read on until her glasses misted, and she was forced to remove and clean them on her T-shirt. Her hands shook. Breathing deeply, she tried to pull herself together—this was not the time for tears.

Back in her room, her fingers flew across the keyboard with little conscious thought from her. Emma hated to be late for school, but today she would have to make an exception. She would tell the teacher there’d been a trauma at home. Her father had run over their dog in the driveway and they’d had to make an emergency dash to the vet. In the car she’d held poor Snuffy in her arms, one side of his dear little head caved in and covered in gore. The vet was going to wire the dog’s jaw and set his broken leg, but he didn’t think he’d survive the operation. The tears Emma had held back while she read the newspaper would be allowed to gush freely. Everyone would believe her and everyone would feel sorry for her. Emma Breightling was a good actor; Emma Breightling was good at everything she chose to do.

And she was also an exceedingly good liar.

8

CHAT ROOM TRANSCRIPT 100207

TIMTAM: did u get the pix of the mullets I sent?

ANGEL12: yeah thnx

TIMTAM: what do u think?

ANGEL12: squeeeeeee!!!!

TIMTAM: did they make u feel horny?

ANGEL12: ur baaaad lol!

Robert Mason had been denied bail. He would be held on remand at Hakea prison, pending trial.