Perfect Victim by Megan Norris, Elizabeth Southall

feeling that we had exonerated Rachel of the runaway note theory. It reaffirmed our sense of urgency.
    But we were told by a policewoman that no detectives were available. I explained that the detective senior sergeant had said there would be detectives. She said they left at 2 p.m. and ‘like everyone else were entitled to time off. You have already had a lot of police hours this week and you’re not the only parents of missing persons.’
    A lot of police hours. You’ve got to be kidding.
    I tried to explain that we had new information. She didn’t appear to want to deal with us. We were a nuisance. We were parents of a ‘runaway’ who wanted the police to find their naughty child. This was not their job any more. Go home … seek special counselling . This was the feeling, the perception.
    The knot of anger and despair gripped my chest. A single atom multiplied in a second. I ran from the police station and, standing on the steps, wrenched my handbag from my shoulder, aiming it at a stationary police car window. Then I stopped suddenly and ran into the street.
    I screamed, ‘They’re going to let our little girl die! They’re going to let our little girl die!’
    I was cheap entertainment for the Saturday afternoon coffee minglers, sitting outside cafés at tables for two. Street fumes mixed with inhaled smoke. Cigarette ash flicked into the dusty, grimy gutters. Chairs appearing to teeter on the edge.
    Michele followed me. Wrapped her arms around me. ‘Elizabeth,’ she pleaded, ‘come back. She said she’ll listen.’
    I looked to the upstairs window of the detective’s office. Were you up there looking down at me?
    Mike and the policewoman met me on the step. She asked me what this new information was, insisting that I could tell her on the street.
    ‘There’s this man,’ I began and stopped. How could I tell her on the street? I tried to explain about one of our best friends betraying us. It sounded so ridiculous. I felt invaded, as if I had committed a crime. Could she think we were trying to come up with just any reason to keep the police investigation open?
    We left, dissatisfied. Michele drove us to Dulcie’s.
    Dulcie rang Neil Paterson of the Missing Persons Unit to tell him we were not happy with the response from Richmond.
    ‘Look, even if Rachel hated her parents, she’d still come to dance,’ I heard her say.
    Whether our fear was justified or not we now believed one hundred per cent that my fortieth birthday was crucial to Rachel’s survival. We had to find her tonight.
    Dulcie was told we could contact the Ethical Standards Department, or the Ombudsman, or the inspector at the Victoria Police Centre, Duty Office Region One. We rang the number for the inspector. Labour Day long weekend. No one there. I left a detailed message. It was impossible to give up. We just couldn’t say, ‘Oh what the heck, let’s go home. See if Mike’s wrong or right.’ What if we did receive a large package, sent by courier? What would the policewoman say then?
    We all decided to go back to the police station. Maybe the policewoman would be off duty.
    The policewoman was still there. We repeated our request for a detective. No, no detective available. So, crime didn’t happen on long weekends. My suppressed anger tried to speak to her in a controlled but loudening voice. I told her we’d left a message on the inspector’s phone. We were taking matters higher. I told her I had nearly thrown my handbag through the police car window in frustration. I was emotional. Extremely noisy. I was becoming one of her worst nightmares.
    The policewoman cautioned me: she could put me on a charge if I continued in this manner.
    ‘Go ahead then!’ I yelled, baiting her. ‘It’d be a very good idea.’ How good would it look to jail the mother of a missing girl. The press would love it. ‘YOU FUCKHEAD!’ I screeched. I can still remember the shock of hearing my own voice.
    I was delirious. Crying and swirling in