The Devil's Garden by Debi Marshall Page A

she didn't think it would be safe after what had just happened to Sarah Spiers. Jane was a very caring person who always brought a smile to our face . . .' They treasure a lock of hair, too, that the police gave to them after they found her body. It stays in a keepsake chest with other precious mementos of their daughter.
    As distraught as the family is that Jane has been murdered, her sister, Lee, recalls feeling a sense of relief that she had been found, that they can start the grieving process and lay her to rest with dignity. Jane's murder has strained Perth women's sense of safety, their personal boundaries. Lee will later march in 2001 with hundreds of others through Claremont streets, to reclaim the night and the space as safe. It is a small gesture, but important. Jenny joins in the march that starts at the Continental Hotel where she huddles in the warm safety of friends and family. It breaks her heart to be there, and she will never return.
    The police are puzzled by questions they can't answer. Why did Jane leave her friends at the hotel? She was standing outside the Continental for a few minutes on her own – was she waiting for someone? If so, who? Was it a taxi and, if so, why would she choose such a bad spot to get a cab? What they don't tell the public is that after Sarah Spiers disappeared, a secret video was installed to monitor girls' movements outside the hotel. But a transport desk to arrange taxis home or to escort girls to the nearby Club Bayview is highly visible.
    The taxi industry in Perth is intensely feeling the pressure. Parents pick up their daughters instead of allowing them to risk getting into a cab with a stranger, and drivers' back-grounds are scrutinised. Within a short time, for a variety of reasons, 78 drivers lose their jobs.
    The police presence at the Rimmers' home dwindles off. Days turn into weeks, weeks to months. The family, police later say, asked that they receive visits only if there was important news. It is not a conversation Jenny recalls. Dave Caporn's visit – months after Jane's body is found – leaves Jenny nonplussed. 'He walked around with a huge radio phone, explaining he hadn't visited before as he hadn't wanted to get too close to the case,' she says. 'But he was the head of the case! Why didn't he want to get too close?' It seems ludicrous, and all a little too late. 'Why has he waited until now to visit us?'
    The Rimmers are fair in their judgements of how Macro handled Jane's murder. 'I guess they did a good job,' Jenny murmurs. 'I guess there wasn't much more that they could have done?' It's a question, not a statement and one that hangs limply in the air. What she is most upset about, she continues, is the lack of communication. 'We never hear from them anymore, unless it's to tell us something that gets our hopes up and amounts to nothing.'
    Anger for Trevor Rimmer is a wasted emotion. He is a gentle, private man, given to reflective comments. What does it matter, he shrugs, if they find Jane's killer or not. Punishment will not bring her back. He sees his daughter's murder as some perverse, reverse lotto: wrong place, wrong time, right type. A million people in Perth and a million-to-one chance it would happen to them. But he would like closure, that nebulous, grey concept that families cling to in situations like this. Closure, so that at least his daughter's killer doesn't strike again.
    It is nine months since Jane's abduction, long enough for young women to tentatively hope that the disappearance of Sarah and the murder of Jane is simply an aberration. Shock and sympathy still spill out in letters to the press and the media, though police continue to warn women to take special care. And the young people do. For a time.
    Winter turns to spring, denuded branches are now in blossom and the cool, clear nights become warmer, seducing people outdoors. And as the long, hot summer passes the baton to an unseasonably warm autumn, memories fade.
    Then another girl