by Sarah Bailey
More journalists arrive, their faces alive with the prospect of murder, walking briskly down the wide street flanked by scruffy cameramen. In stark contrast, neighbours emerge from nearby houses looking bewildered. A young couple watch the detectives on the lawn from the front yard of the house next door. Their toddler son, clad in a woollen jumper, nappy and gumboots, smacks a plastic spade against an upturned bucket. Four elderly ladies, one in a peach dressing-gown, stand in a huddle on their front porch, whispering to each other. A bald man with a neck tattoo rocks back and forth on his heels while holding a bored-looking tabby, and a middle-aged couple in gym gear are trying to wrangle three fluffy white dogs.
Words start to arrange themselves in Oli’s mind. Last night a house on Paradise Street, St Kilda, was the scene of a terrible tragedy. Neighbours were shocked to discover that a young woman had been killed, her body found in the early hours of Saturday morning …
The noise punch of a backfiring car jerks Oli’s thoughts to the present.
‘Bowman’s up.’ Rob gestures to the house.
Her nerves skyrocket again. ‘Right.’
‘Hold this.’ He hands her his camera and reties his straggly hair into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. ‘What time do you need to file?’
‘Jo said she wants something to review by nine.’
He takes the camera back. ‘You’ll be fine. And, bonus, it’s stopped raining so I’ll get some decent pics.’
Oli smiles at him gratefully and joins the throng of journos clambering to get to Bowman. Familiar faces jostle around her, sickly sweet perfume mixing with warm coffee breath. Phones ping with texts. The sun breaks through the clouds, and Oli squints, pen poised as questions rumble around her. ‘Who lives at the property?’ she calls out, adding to the chorus.
‘Quiet, please.’ Bowman’s rich baritone demands attention. He pauses and looks slowly from left to right, a tired old cattle dog ready to round up the sheep. ‘I’m going to make a brief statement about the circumstances we are dealing with here this morning, but there is minimal information at present, so I expect we’ll hold a formal press conference at a later time. I won’t be answering any questions this morning, understood?’
The mob nods, disappointed.
‘A young woman is deceased, and we are treating her death as suspicious.’ Bowman’s tar-thick voice catches pleasantly on the tails of certain words.
Through the hedge, Oli glimpses the blood-stained woman wrapped in the police blanket.
A shiny blue Ford pulls up behind Oli’s Mazda, blocking the end of a driveway. Detective Sergeant Isabelle Yardley emerges. Oli immediately finds it close to impossible to focus on what Bowman is saying. Her eyes are glued to Isabelle.
‘We understand that the victim lived at the property with two other people.’ Bowman pauses, acknowledging Yardley with a nod. ‘They will both be questioned, but we believe a number of people were at the property last night, and we will be speaking to those individuals as soon as possible.’
Yardley ducks under the chequered tape and sails up the driveway. Her charcoal suit clings to her petite frame, and the fat curl at the end of her ponytail swings like a pendulum. She steps onto the front porch and turns, her laser-like stare landing on Oli.
Bowman’s voice fades into a hum as Oli’s legs wobble. Her heartbeat echoes in her head. Yardley refuses to break the stare, her face devoid of emotion. The emerging sunshine does nothing to quell the chattering of Oli’s teeth. Does she know? She must know. No, you’re being paranoid. He would have told you.
Oli’s senses go into overdrive. Memories flood her system, and she feels both intense dread and the heady bliss of last night. She’s acutely aware that Isabelle Yardley has the power to ruin it all, and that the loss would cripple her. For a horrible second, she thinks she’ll be sick. She shudders through a deep anchoring breath.
‘I’m not yet prepared to discuss how the young woman died,’ Bowman says, ‘but I can confirm that the scene in the house is quite confronting and we’ll be allocating significant resources to get to the bottom of what happened as soon as possible.’
Bowman folds his arms, indicating he is finished. The media mob stirs and shouts questions again.
Yardley pauses briefly to speak to the other detectives on the front porch before stepping into a set of scrubs and disappearing into the house. Oli exhales.
A desperate screech cuts through the frenetic buzz. ‘Get your hands off me!’
Heads whip around and cameras home in on an overweight, crying woman who is stumbling up the street. She tries to pull away from a man who’s running after her and tugging on her handbag. Finally she breaks free and runs into the crime-scene tape, which slingshots her backwards. She crumples into a messy heap, hands pressed to the concrete path. ‘My baby,’ she cries, sobbing. ‘Evelyn, no.’
The man shuffles over and squats next to the woman, placing his hands awkwardly on her shoulders.
‘This is your fault,’ she screams at him. ‘Your fault!’ Still sobbing, she claws at his fingers and dislodges his grip.
Yardley reappears on the porch, where she zips open her scrubs and steps elegantly out of the white material. Her face is firm but her gaze sympathetic as she surveys the screaming woman and makes her way across the lawn.
Looking stricken, the young woman in the blanket emerges from behind the hedge. Several journalists gasp at the blood covering her face and hands.
Yardley pauses, glancing back and forth from the porch to the street.
‘Alex!’ The older woman scrambles to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘What happened? Where’s Evelyn?’
Alex sinks to her knees, sobbing. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The blanket slips off her shoulders to reveal a pale-blue jumper stained with blood. ‘I’m just so sorry.’
MYSTERY SURROUNDS HOUSEMATE HOMICIDE
Sunday, 4 October 2005
By Joanne Cardellini with Oli Groves
Mystery surrounds the death of a young Melbourne woman whose body was discovered in her St Kilda rental property in the early hours of Saturday morning. Homicide detectives say Evelyn Stanley, 21, was murdered in the house on Paradise Street. The cause of her death has not been confirmed.
Stanley, a University of Melbourne undergraduate arts student and aspiring actress, rented the property with two other women. Nicole Horrowitz, also 21, has not been seen since Friday evening. Police are appealing for anyone with information about the missing woman to come forward. It is believed a third housemate, 20-year-old Alexandra Riboni, called for an ambulance at around 3.30 am, though it’s unknown if Ms Stanley was alive at the time. Ms Riboni was taken into custody yesterday morning, following a dramatic confrontation with Ms Stanley’s parents, and continues to be questioned by police. Ms Riboni’s partner, Melbourne University honours student Miles Wu, was a frequent visitor to the house and is also believed to be assisting police with their inquiries.
Neighbours have confirmed that the three women hosted a party at the St Kilda property on Friday evening and claim to have overheard several heated arguments in the backyard earlier in the night. Friends of the housemates say that tensions had been brewing between them for weeks, with one argument leading to a vehicle being vandalised with paint. It is understood that Ms Stanley’s personal computer has been seized, along with other items from the house, including illegal drugs and a potential weapon.
Homicide detective Isabelle Yardley is leading the investigation and confirmed that she and her colleagues are in the process of interviewing everyone who was at the property on Friday evening, a group that allegedly includes a University of Melbourne professor. During a press conference on Saturday afternoon, DS Yardley said, ‘A young woman is dead after what should have been a fun night with her friends, and another is missing. If anyone has any information pertinent to the case, we urge them to come forward.’
Ms Stanley’s murder adds to the pressure that the Melbourne Homicide Squad is facing due to several unsolved cases, including the w
hereabouts of toddler Louise Carter, abducted from the bedroom of her Malvern home in June, and the murders of two prostitutes, brutally assaulted and dumped in St Kilda parkland two weeks ago.
CHAPTER ONE
TUESDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 2015
THE SCREAM IS SHARP AND CLOSE. OLI IS DREAMING, A COMPLICATED narrative that is partly about a story she is working on, partly about hiding in her childhood bedroom. She can’t summon a word she needs for the article. She’s terrified she will just blurt it out when it comes to her but she doesn’t want to be found. Please don’t let him find me, she begs, clutching her sister as the scream reaches her ears and dismantles the dream. The scene twists and blurs into a messy whirlpool, then disappears. She blinks, confused, as her gaze settles on the dark bedroom. It’s hot, her singlet and underpants sticking to her skin, and her long hair is damp with sweat. Dean has left the heater on again. Her heart thrums, and her fingers go to her wrist, the old childhood routine so ingrained it’s become instinct. She counts to the beat of her pulse. One, two, three, four. It’s okay, just breathe. She presses her fingers more firmly into her flesh. Feels calmer. One, two, three, four.
Shadows jostle across the white walls: it’s still windy outside. She scans the closed wardrobe doors, the distinctive shape of the Eames chair near the window, the silhouette of the lamp in the corner. Dean’s breathing is steady and even, his mouth slightly open. One muscular arm hugs his stomach, the other reaches toward the bedhead. She watches him for a few moments, marvelling at the symmetry of his face. She’s still not used to waking up next to him every day; a part of her refuses to believe it’s real.
Another cry. Amy.
Oli pushes back the sheets and slips out of bed. Dean murmurs but doesn’t wake; he rarely does. She stumbles on a shoe as she rounds the bed and steps into the hallway. Her fingers grope for the light switch. The empty corridor glows like a catwalk.
A strangled sob—not quite a cry this time, but still unnerving.
‘Amy?’ Oli’s voice is shaky as it threads through the air.
There’s no reply, and she’s tempted to go back to bed—it’s just past three, and she has to be in the office by eight. She pauses near the top of the staircase and grips the wooden rail, momentarily anxious she will fall into the dark abyss.
Her eyes follow the second hand of the grandfather clock illuminated in the moonlight. If the second hand reaches the seven before Amy cries again, it means I won’t be made redundant before Christmas. Dean won’t be injured in a horrible accident. She holds her breath as the black hand ticks on to the seven then proceeds to the eight. Stop it, she admonishes herself, don’t do that.
She hears, no, senses movement in the house as she pads down the hallway past the cluster of framed photographs in between the two bedrooms. Her mind has transitioned fully from the dream and is now working its way steadily through the day ahead. It’s clear she won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.
The wooden sign hangs at eye level on the bedroom door: Amy in cursive font. Oli always feels funny about shutting their doors at night, locking two little girls in their princess cells, but Dean insists on it.
Oli places one hand on the door, the other on the handle. Turns and pushes. A line of light cuts across the creamy carpet. Gauzy curtains ripple in the breeze like a woman’s long skirt. She falters. Did Dean leave the window open?
Her eyes go to the bed. Empty.
She steps forward, looking left then right and peering into the dark corners. Her legs weaken slightly. There’s Amy.
But the relief is short-lived, goose pimples rising on the bare stretches of her limbs. Amy stares back at her from the mirror positioned on the dresser. She’s sitting on the reupholstered piano stool. Dark hair swishes across the waistband of her lacy pyjama shorts.
‘Amy?’
The little girl blinks. Once. Twice. Her lips begin moving, but there’s no sound.
‘Amy,’ Oli repeats, walking across the room, ‘come on, honey, you need to get back to bed.’ She gently places a hand on Amy’s shoulder. ‘This way.’
The girl’s skin is damp, her limbs obedient. She allows herself to be pulled upright and guided to bed. Oli pushes back the sheets and eases her in, smoothing the covers across her small frame.
Oli closes the window, locks it. Pulls the curtain across the glass. She watches Amy for a moment, then goes to her, thinking, as she often does, that those thick dark brows are jarring on such a young face. So severe.
‘Go to sleep, Amy,’ Oli whispers authoritatively, using her fingers to close the girl’s left eye, which was still half open. Oli stares at Amy’s sleeping face then pulls away, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.
‘Mummy.’
It’s so faint that Oli wonders if she imagined it. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Amy’s breathing becomes as even as the tick of a clock. Adrenaline twitches through Oli’s limbs as she backs away from the bed. Amy won’t remember this; she never does.
Oli dashes along the hall, imaginary beasts biting at her heels. Dean is in the same position, his large feet exposed at the end of the bed. On the bedside table the clock ticks over to 3.27. Oli feels her way through a mound of clothes on the floor and pulls on one of Dean’s sweatshirts. She plucks her pyjama pants from the end of the bed and collects her work satchel from the chair. As she heads downstairs, she avoids the second step, the only creaky one. Reaching the bottom, she quickly turns off the ground-floor security system and rushes through the silent dining room, her bare feet gliding across the floorboards, the shadowy furniture reminding her of an abandoned carnival. In the kitchen she flicks on all the lights and the kettle. The water boils as the wind rages outside, muted by the double-glazed windows.
She carries her tea into the lounge, her satchel bumping against her thigh. She feels a familiar frisson of energy, her fingers tingling with a desire to start typing. Laptop open, notes nearby and the steaming mug balanced on the armrest, she tries to forget about Amy, tries to forget about everything except her work.
Detective Isabelle Yardley watches from the mantelpiece as Oli starts to write.
CHAPTER TWO
THE WIND HAS DROPPED, AND TENTATIVE SUNLIGHT CREEPS INTO the kitchen. It’s a huge room, easily as big as Oli’s former apartment, with large glass doors running the length of the back wall, showcasing the tall fruit trees that border the neat backyard. Wisteria drips lilac from the eaves, and the blossom on the trees has the entire garden buzzing with insects. Appliances gleam from their positions around the room, an island bench cutting diagonally across the centre of the space, its waterfall of marble flowing into the bone-white tiles.
Dean’s house is nestled in the heart of Camberwell, where the streets are wide grand affairs lined with spreading plane trees and manicured nature strips. The houses are not unlike their owners: classic structures that have been given new life with a few layers of paint or, more often than not, comprehensive renovations.
Despite the relative proximity, it feels like a world away from Oli’s old place in Brunswick.
Amy and Kate sit at the round table in the corner, their chatter mixing with the rich timbre of Channel Nine’s morning news anchor from the TV that hangs on the far wall.
‘Shhhhh, girls.’ Oli cranes her neck around the vase of white tulips on the bench.
The twins ignore her, so she finds the remote and turns up the volume, trying to piece together the story with what she can see of the news package while she adds chopped fruit and kale to the yoghurt in the blender. She gives up on listening and starts the blender, the deep buzz blocking out the girls’ babble. On the TV, a female reporter is standing outside the Melbourne Town Hall. Oli turns off the blender and pours the green liquid into two glasses.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the reporter is saying, ‘today we’ll find out whether former Premier John O’Brien will face criminal charges in regard to the allegations made against him, which include awarding significant government contracts to associa
tes, the sexual assault of two staff members, and threatening a junior staff member with violence and reputational damage as a means of coercing him into illegal activity.’
The news cuts to an edited sequence of the former premier in happier times, shaking hands and drinking beer at a charity event. His bald, slightly peanut-shaped head used to seem endearing to Oli, giving him a slightly goofy vibe, but she has now seen enough of him off camera and under pressure to know his temperament is anything but friendly.
The footage cuts back to the studio where an image is superimposed behind the anchor’s left shoulder, a generic hospital scene with the words DANGEROUS DOCTORS layered over the top. ‘At this stage it’s unknown if …’
If what? Oli thinks, as Kate makes a strange shriek.
Sighing, Oli pops a blueberry in her mouth and carries the girls’ scrambled eggs to the table.
Amy and Kate’s thin frames are swamped by their stiff navy blazers. Their school logo is embroidered on the pockets with gold and red thread, their hair pulled back in neat ponytails. Their perfect ivory skin is plump and impossibly smooth. Oli finds it almost impossible to tell them apart, the only discrepancy the small mole on Kate’s left cheek.
They are the spitting image of their dead mother.
‘Eggs again,’ moans Kate, as Amy ducks her head and bites directly into the yellow mound.
‘Use your fork,’ Oli says, just as Dean enters the kitchen. His hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s wearing her favourite of his shirts, pale blue with a faint flicker of cobalt woven through the material. Just for a moment, she lets herself imagine that they’re living together in her old apartment, cooking breakfast in the pokey kitchen after waking up in the sun-drenched loft. But it’s a fantasy from ten years ago, before Kate and Amy were born. When everything was a million times more complicated and somehow so much simpler.
‘Morning, my ladies!’ Dean plants a kiss on each of the girls’ foreheads, then on Oli’s. His aftershave causes a pleasant wave of déjà vu to ripple through her.