Where the Dead Go Read online

  PRAISE FOR INTO THE NIGHT

  ‘Melbourne’s wintry streets come alive on the pages, keeping the dramatic tension high . . . Bailey’s writing has grown stronger and more assured in this novel.’ Good Reading

  ‘With its deft exploration of the intersection of public and private lives and a chance to peer more deeply into the mind and heartset of an engagingly flawed heroine, Into the Night seems set to be just as successful as The Dark Lake.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Into the Night is a solid procedural, full of constant twists and reveals that keep the investigation fresh . . . with this expansion of her world, it feels like Gemma Woodstock might be with us for a while.’ Australian Crime Fiction

  ‘Bailey’s writing is stronger than ever, and the prickliness of her characters is a natural fit for the jarring confines of Melbourne’s central business district . . . a bristling police procedural for fans of Emma Viskic and J.M. Green.’ Books + Publishing

  ‘Every bit as addictive and suspenseful as The Dark Lake . . . Sarah Bailey’s writing is both keenly insightful and wholly engrossing, weaving intriguing and multi-layered plots combined with complicated and compelling characters.’ The Booktopian

  ‘Bailey’s writing is sharp, her sense of place harrowing, and her mystery intriguing. A great read for anyone who likes complex characters and gritty crime.’ Glam Adelaide

  ‘If you’re a fan of quintessential Australian crime fiction, you must read Into the Night . . . Sarah Bailey shows us that she is a force to be reckoned with in the Australian crime field.’ Mrs B’s Book Reviews

  ‘An excellent follow-up to The Dark Lake . . . sets a new bar for psychological thrillers.’ Blue Wolf Reviews

  ‘Gemma’s prickliness matches perfectly with a city alive on the page—one both recognisable and horrifying to local Readings customers who traipse the streets where blood is spattered in these pages. This is a gritty metropolitan police procedural that shows Bailey is only getting better.’ Readings

  ‘Dark, gritty, teeming with atmosphere, Into the Night is police procedural crime fiction at its very best.’ Theresa Smith Writes

  PRAISE FOR THE DARK LAKE

  ‘The Dark Lake is a thrilling psychological police procedural as well as a leap into the mind of a woman engulfed with guilt.’ New York Journal of Books

  ‘The Dark Lake hooked me from page one! Sarah Bailey combines the very best elements in this stunning debut thriller—a troubled detective still trying to find her way as a female investigator, a small town haunted by secrets both past and present, and a beautiful victim whose unsettling allure appears to be her biggest asset and largest downfall. With clever twists and all-too-human characters, this book will keep you racing toward the end.’ Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Right Behind You and Find Her

  ‘This polished debut is a winner from the first page.’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘I read The Dark Lake in one sitting, it’s that good. A crime thriller that seizes you from the first page and slowly draws you into a web of deception and long buried secrets. Beautifully written, compulsively readable, and highly recommended.’ Douglas Preston, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Lost City of the Monkey God and co-author of the bestselling Pendergast series

  ‘An addictive and thoroughly entertaining read.’ Weekly Review

  ‘The Dark Lake is a mesmerising thriller full of long buried secrets that sucked me right in and kept me up late turning pages. Gemma Woodstock is a richly flawed and completely authentic character—I loved going on this journey with her and the way the truth of her past was revealed in bits and pieces as we went along. Sarah Bailey has crafted an exquisite debut—I can’t wait to see what she does next!’ Jennifer McMahon, New York Times bestselling author of The Winter People

  ‘So many people have compared Sarah Bailey to the likes of Gillian Flynn and Tana French, and they’re so right. The prose is incredible. Poetic and perfectly constructed . . . I recommend this book if you’re into crime thrillers with a strong female lead and lots of twists and turns. I can’t wait to see what Sarah [Bailey] does next.’ A Girl and Grey

  ‘Debut author Sarah Bailey depicts both the landscape and Gemma’s state of mind vividly, bringing into focus the intensity of Gemma’s physical and emotional pain and her increasing discontent. The Dark Lake adds to the trend of haunting, rural Australian crime fiction, and provides a welcome addition to the genre for those left bereft after finishing Jane Harper’s The Dry.’ Books + Publishing

  ‘The Dark Lake is an absolutely stunning debut. This is such a beautifully written and utterly absorbing read, it’s hard to believe that it’s the author’s first novel. I love to get my hands on a good character-driven murder mystery—especially one with a complex protagonist and a plot that keeps me guessing. The Dark Lake delivers all of this and more. The characters and relationships portrayed are so intricate and messy and real . . . it was a real struggle for me to put this book down.’ Sarah McDuling, Booktopia

  ‘. . . a page-turner that’s both tense and thought provoking.’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘The Dark Lake by Sarah Bailey is a brooding, suspenseful and explosive debut that will grip you from the first page to the last.’ New Idea

  ‘A compelling debut.’ Booklist

  ‘I raced through this deliciously complicated, mesmerising debut at warp speed. Sarah Bailey’s The Dark Lake is sure to keep readers awake far too late into the night.’ Karen Dionne, author The Marsh King’s Daughter

  ‘Enthralling . . . Bailey uses solid character development and superior storytelling, rather than violence, to fuel The Dark Lake, and she is off to an excellent start in this launch of a series.’ Oline Cogdill, Associated Press

  Sarah Bailey is a Melbourne-based writer with a background in advertising and communications. She has two children and is currently the Managing Partner of advertising agency VMLY&R in Melbourne. Over the past five years she has written a number of short stories and opinion pieces. Her first novel, the bestselling The Dark Lake, was published in 2017, followed by Into the Night in 2018. Where the Dead Go is her third novel in the Detective Gemma Woodstock series.

  This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2019

  Copyright © Sarah Bailey 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web:www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76052 932 1

  eISBN 978 1 76087 199 4

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork

  Cover images: Anton Gorlin [beach]/ Luke Causby [seagulls]

  For my mum and dad, who filled our house with books and, as a result, filled my head with ideas

  CONTENTS

  Sunday, 10 April 12.21 am

  FIRST DAY MISSING

  Sunday, 1
0 April 7.42 am

  SECOND DAY MISSING

  Monday, 11 April 8.14 am

  Monday, 11 April 11.52 am

  Monday, 11 April 2.03 pm

  Monday, 11 April 2.59 pm

  Monday, 11 April 4.06 pm

  Monday, 11 April 5.28 pm

  Monday, 11 April 5.57 pm

  Monday, 11 April 6.24 pm

  Monday, 11 April 8.23 pm

  THIRD DAY MISSING

  Tuesday, 12 April 5.12 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 7.48 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 8.17 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 8.49 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 9.35 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 10.03 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 11.22 am

  Tuesday, 12 April 3.13 pm

  Tuesday, 12 April 5.46 pm

  FOURTH DAY MISSING

  Wednesday, 13 April 5.55 am

  Wednesday, 13 April 7.18 am

  Wednesday, 13 April 8.54 am

  Wednesday, 13 April 10.39 am

  Wednesday, 13 April 11.36 am

  Wednesday, 13 April 1.28 pm

  Wednesday, 13 April 4.58 pm

  Wednesday, 13 April 5.49 pm

  Wednesday, 13 April 8.32 pm

  FIFTH DAY MISSING

  Thursday, 14 April 6.16 am

  Thursday, 14 April 9.08 am

  Thursday, 14 April 11.46 am

  Thursday, 14 April 2.51 pm

  Thursday, 14 April 6.32 pm

  Thursday, 14 April 8.21 pm

  SIXTH DAY MISSING

  Friday, 15 April 5.24 am

  Friday, 15 April 7.28 am

  Friday, 15 April 9.14 am

  Friday, 15 April 3.06 pm

  Friday, 15 April 5.02 pm

  Friday, 15 April 5.47 pm

  SEVENTH DAY MISSING

  Saturday, 16 April 7.01 am

  Saturday, 16 April 10.02 am

  Saturday, 16 April 11.44 am

  Saturday, 16 April 1.23 pm

  Saturday, 16 April 7.22 pm

  Saturday, 16 April 11.02 pm

  Saturday, 16 April 11.23 pm

  Saturday, 16 April 11.59 pm

  EIGHTH DAY MISSING

  Sunday, 17 April 12.24 am

  Sunday, 17 April 5.13 am

  Sunday, 17 April 7.11 am

  Sunday, 17 April 11.32 am

  Sunday, 17 April 12.53 pm

  Sunday, 17 April 5.32 pm

  NINTH DAY MISSING

  Monday, 18 April 3.17 pm

  Monday, 18 April 5.41 pm

  Tuesday, 19 April 11.55 am

  Thursday, 21 April 10.52 am

  Acknowledgements

  Sunday, 10 April

  12.21 am

  The girl pushes blindly through the wall of trees, tripping over her feet. The crash still rings in her ears and joins the uneven rhythm of her breathing. She pauses, momentarily overwhelmed as she stands in the darkness. Then she yanks her phone from her pocket, waking the screen and pressing buttons until a fresh rush of anger surges through her. She shoves it back.

  What’s the point of calling him? What more is there to say?

  There’s a low rumble nearby before the road lights up like a runway, and two giant beams bear down on the asphalt. She scrambles backwards to the safety of the thick shrubbery. A truck thunders past, rattling the bones of the earth. The world is cast back into darkness, and she wrenches strands of her long hair free from twigs and branches, stepping back onto the road and running toward a distant street lamp.

  Mannequins leer from their glass cages, and cartoon signs seem to have an underlying sinister tone. Even though it’s still warm, the girl hugs her hands around her torso, desperately wishing she was wearing a jacket.

  Snap.

  She stiffens. Was that the sound of someone treading on a stick?

  Without stopping to look, the girl veers off the main street and darts to the small path leading to the beach. Blood pounds through her veins. Sweat and make-up mingle with her tears.

  Stop crying. Stop being so pathetic.

  Deep down she knows where she’s headed and swallows past the shame. But it’s not like she planned for the night to work out like this, for any of this to happen.

  Underfoot, the grainy dirt turns to sand and the tunnel of trees opens onto the curve of the bay. The moon hangs above the ocean, a giant white orb that spotlights the tips of the waves.

  A stitch stabs at her side, and she bends over to catch her breath. Pushing her fingers against her belly in an effort to ease the pain, she stumbles along the edge of the sand past the car park.

  A sob escapes her throat and she hastily blocks out the scenes from earlier. Arguments echo in her head, the words chasing each other until she’s crying again. His touch lingers on her skin, and regret overwhelms her. She lost her mind for a moment back there.

  On the left she reaches a worn wooden fence, and beyond that the soft glow of the service station. She looks up along the shore to where the jagged cliffs mark the end of town. She looks back toward the shop; she desperately needs some water.

  A low voice threads past the pulsing in her brain. She whips around, eyes huge and heart hammering.

  Nothing. Just the wind ruffling the dry grass and the rhythmic hum of the sea kissing the shore.

  She eases the gate open and steps onto the cracked asphalt.

  That’s when she sees them: two shadowy figures huddled in the far corner of the car park, next to the open boot of a vehicle.

  Her eyes adjust enough for the twosome to be recognisable, for her to make out what is happening.

  Betrayal smacks her hard in the face and, to her horror, she whimpers.

  The shadows freeze.

  Her feet are balls of concrete, rooted to the ground.

  Tree leaves swish gently, waves crash against sand.

  One of the figures breaks away, takes a step toward her. ‘Hello, Abbey,’ he says. He tilts his head kindly, but there’s malice in his gaze. ‘You’re out late.’

  She tightens her grip on her phone and fumbles backwards, gasping, falling. Her wrists buckle as she hits the ground, but she barely registers the pain. ‘No!’ she yells, scrambling to her feet.

  ‘Come on, don’t be like that.’ He walks quicker now.

  She staggers away from the beach toward the shops. Her veins become ice tunnels, jarring against the heat of her blood.

  Another voice yells her name, high and desperate.

  There’s a sharp metallic clatter as something hits the ground. Her phone, dropped from her shaky fingers.

  He kicks it along and picks it up. He laughs.

  No, no, no.

  Desperate, she scans the empty street. The artificial light from the service station reaches around a large vehicle parked near the bowsers but there’s no way she can get there before he reaches her. She knows how strong he is, and she doesn’t know how far he’ll go. What he is capable of.

  She doesn’t even think to scream. Her only thought is to run.

  His footsteps are loud behind her as she propels herself forward, struggling to breathe while dread threatens to choke her.

  The sporadic cries of her name are lost in the dance of the wind.

  FIRST DAY MISSING

  Sunday, 10 April

  7.42 am

  Dot Clark eases herself out of bed, grunting with the effort. Daniel is already up. Dot squeezes her eyes shut and says a brief prayer, the fear she felt last night as raw as the bruises on her shoulder. Hopefully he’s on the back porch sleeping off his hangover. He sits out there in the early hours sometimes when it’s particularly hot, legs spread and belly bulging like a scantily clad Father Christmas. The bugs never bother him, not even the mosquitoes. Dot wonders if his temper makes his blood taste nasty.

  He was especially bad last night, worse than usual, and the stink of booze distilled through his leather-thick skin still perfumes the air.

  Dot pulls her stringy hair into a low ponytail and swaps her thin nightie for a faded sundress. She throws the sheet acros
s the bed and fluffs the limp pillowcases, the movement causing a little jolt of pain to charge through her. Sections of her rib cage are dark purple and throb unprovoked. She puts her hands on her hips, already exhausted. Despite her solid sleep, the events of last night have left her completely drained.

  She feels an unexpected rage toward both of them: Daniel’s a human landmine, unpredictable and vicious, but Abbey always seems so intent on setting him off. She crossed a line last night—they will all pay for that.

  Dot wheezes through a few breaths as her anger fades to a familiar hopelessness. She shuffles to the end of the bed. She hates this house but she especially hates this bed; she hates the ugly wooden headboard and the rock-hard mattress with its stubborn sweat stains. Odd, then, that all she wants to do after getting up every morning is to crawl back onto the grotty slab and close her eyes again.

  She limps slightly as she approaches the boys’ room, her knee still aching from her fall last weekend; Daniel pushed her down the three stairs to the backyard.

  Chris and Wayne’s curtains are drawn but the day is determinedly muscling in, giving the wooden room a rosy glow. Tentative sunlight reveals the ancient fan in the corner, stoically shifting stale air from one spot to another. Their floor is littered with things: clothes, books, papers, gadgets, trinkets. Dot remembers them as little boys, always with objects in their hands or mouths, bashing, chewing or picking them apart.

  Not like Abbey. Dot’s daughter would sit for hours just staring out the window or drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick.

  Boys are busy, Dot’s mother used to say with a bored shrug. They can’t bloody sit still—they’re too scared to, it’ll mean they have to think.

  Dot’s twin sons are certainly not busy right now; they are asleep, naked but for underpants. Chris is on his front, his legs spread wide, the balls of his dirt-stained feet facing the ceiling. Wayne is a long soft curve, his heavy brows two sharp lines above his spray of dark lashes. They are just starting to show signs of manhood, a thought that prompts both fear and relief.

  She doesn’t like to think about the inevitable: the fact that one day, they will all leave. Escape. Abbey’s bedroom door is wide open, and so are her curtains, the small room awash with clean white light. As always it is rigidly neat. Daniel finds it maddening: just one more thing he can’t lash out at her about. Dot’s eyes scan the photos on the desk then drift to the denim jacket lying across the bottom of the bed, the covers under it smooth, the faded blue pillowcase undented at the opposite end.