BOOK EXTRACT

THE FLIGHT HOME

Pins and needles shot through my hands and my heart weighed heavily in my chest.

The same words kept echoing in my head: “Shirley, it’s your children. They’ve been shot dead.” I tilted my head back, drawing a breath as I moved. I soon exhaled, pressing my forehead on the window of the Air Pacific plane.

“It won’t be long, Mrs Singh, we’ll have you off the aircraft soon,” an attendant said, noticing my discomfort. We were en route from Nadi International Airport in Fiji to Brisbane, via Sydney. We had travelled to Fiji for a wedding. But only hours earlier, I’d taken a phone call from a stranger in Fiji.

The caller, a woman with a thick Indian accent, had called twice to say the same thing.

A young man from Vijay’s motor vehicle spare parts business soon repeated her calls.

The Australian evening news was reporting on a triple murder at a house in the suburb of Bridgeman Downs.

It looked like our home, they said. Within hours, and despite no confirmation from Fiji or Australian authorities, our family had helped us pack our things and we were flying home.

As the seats on the plane emptied, and the

aisles cleared, staff began to move around us, cleaning. I closed my eyes. I heard my children laughing. I loved that.

Beside me, Vijay was silent, eyes closed. I tapped his hand; he flinched.

Ahead of us, three men climbed the stairs of the plane. They walked towards us.

The first, a solid Caucasian, with a strong Australian accent, spoke first.

“Mr and Mrs Singh, I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Bryan Paton from the Child Protection and Investigation Unit at Petrie Police Station. This is Detective Sergeant

Joe Zitny and this is Arveen Singh, a detective and community liaison officer from Boondall Police Station,” he said, gesturing towards another officer – Indian, maybe six feet.

Detective Senior Sergeant Bryan Paton removed his badge from his pocket, placing it in front of me. They led Vijay and me from the plane, the last to exit. I was placed in a wheelchair and pushed across the tarmac, the bitumen rolling endlessly underneath me.

“Mr Zitny, do you know what happened to my children. Are they OK?” I pleaded. “Please tell me what’s wrong, why you’re here.” “We’ll let you know soon, Mrs Singh,” he said. As we exited the airport, we were told we would be taken to Petrie Police Station, maybe 30 minutes from the airport.

My body slumped against the inside of the police car door, as I buckled myself in.

THE POLICE STATION

When we arrived at the Petrie Police Station, Vijay and I were placed in separate rooms.

We were advised something had happened at our house but the police wouldn’t tell us what. I pleaded to return home, to see my children, but I was told it was important I provide them with as much information as possible. They asked me why we’d gone to Fiji and about my love for our children, the state of our marriage, and our finances. They wanted to know about Vijay’s business, any enemies we may have, and the last time I’d spoken to Neelma, Kunal, and Sidhi.

This was the first of many visits to that station,

and many hours of questioning and statements.

The police never did tell us what happened to our children that day. We learned that from the media and family. Our beautiful Nim, Kunal, and Sidhi were with Lord Shiva. Vijay and I knew we were suspects. However, even in those early days, we were sure who had murdered our children: Max Sica.