The Survivors, стр. 63
‘The police are monitoring it now, though,’ George said quietly, his eyes on Pendlebury.
‘The forum?’ Kieran said.
‘Yeah. I think so. Occasionally a post will just disappear. But there’s a mountain of libellous stuff left up there, so my guess is they’re focusing on pulling things they think have some connection with the investigation.’
‘Stuff they don’t want people to know?’ Kieran said.
‘Or talk about, maybe?’ George shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’ve been trying to keep an eye on it. Work out what’s getting deleted, but it’s moving too fast for me to keep up.’
Kieran pulled out his phone, unable to help himself, and saw Mia do the same. Welcome to EBOCH! Drop in for a virtual cuppa and a chat!
People were doing a lot more than that, Kieran could see. An argument over whether or not to boycott the Surf and Turf ran over three pages. Kieran looked up and saw Julian’s eyes trained on Pendlebury. The Surf and Turf would survive, surely, he thought. People needed somewhere to eat or, more crucially, drink. Still, the fact that anyone was even suggesting avoiding the place was troubling. Kieran turned back to his screen.
Bronte liked to have sex on the beach at night. An anonymous grey avatar insisted so. He – she? – knew someone at the gym who had seen her down there with a guy last month. Kieran had no idea if that were true. Judging by the responses, no-one else did either. He looked around the crowded room, trying to match faces with some of the comments. He didn’t know where to start.
One reply had been deleted.
The grey avatar still remained but the comment box was shaded out. This comment by Blainey82 has been removed for violating EBOCH guidelines.
Kieran looked at it for a minute, then moved on. Directly below, Mia’s old music teacher Theresa Hartley had chosen to weigh in again, commenting on the original post.
I don’t believe for a minute Bronte was like that. My granddaughter says she was one of the nicest girls at university. You can tell from this, she had written, and posted a website link. Her comment had in turn prompted a string of responses ranging from patient to furious, informing Theresa that it was entirely possible to be a nice girl while also enjoying consensual sex in a semi-secluded place.
Curious, Kieran clicked on Theresa’s link. It went through to a page on a social media site that Kieran had heard of, but had felt too old and jaded to get to grips with every time he’d tried to check it out. It was an online tribute to Bronte, where visitors – mostly her fellow art students in Canberra from what Kieran could tell – had put up pictures and video messages. Some had shared sketches and paintings of Bronte, and quite a few had posted pictures Bronte had drawn for them. I can’t believe she’s gone, one girl had written. Theresa’s granddaughter, Kieran guessed by the surname.
Kieran felt Mia touch his arm. She was still looking at the EBOCH page. She twisted her screen so only he could see and subtly tapped a post with her nail.
Brian Elliott was seen on the beach the night Bronte Laidler was killed. Kieran felt his chest go tight. He checked the avatar. Anonymous and grey, of course. Not even a proper nickname, just a string of numbers. He walks around at night.
Don’t, a reply said. He’s got dementia.
He was also the last one seen with Gabby Birch. Remember that?
Kieran felt sick. Across the room, he could see Julian was now looking at his own phone, tapping at the screen.
‘It could have been anyone,’ Mia whispered, reading his mind. ‘Liam will have told people about your dad wandering. Anyone could have written that.’
‘That doesn’t exactly make it better,’ Kieran said, glancing over to where Verity appeared to be trying to talk Brian into staying seated.
‘No, but –’ Mia broke off as there was a movement behind them and the collective attention of the room was immediately focused on the door.
Sergeant Renn came in first and nodded to Pendlebury, their faces identically hard. There was a hush and a stillness in which it seemed for a moment like no-one else was coming. Renn half turned, then Bronte’s parents appeared at the door. Pendlebury had cleared a route and every eye in the place followed them on the long journey from the back of the room to the front.
They were civil servants up in Canberra, Kieran remembered Olivia saying, and they dressed like it. They had changed clothes since the news bulletin and both looked as though they could be on their way to a business breakfast meeting, in crisp shirts and suit material. Kieran imagined them in their hotel room, trying to decide what to wear. Silently taking turns to use the wobbly ironing board. What was appropriate for speaking on behalf of their dead daughter? Nothing, was the answer. Or anything. Kieran guessed they had fallen back on the familiar clothes that at least in their normal lives offered some sense of being in control.
Sergeant Renn remained standing as the other three took their seats. He picked up the microphone from the table and fiddled with the button.
‘Can everyone hear me all right?’ There was an affirmative murmur in the room. ‘Right. Well, thanks for coming, everyone. I think most of you know