The Housemate

by Sarah Bailey

  The chief inspector places a notebook on the table, plucks a pen from his pocket. His broad shoulders are almost double the width of Yardley’s narrow frame, and his shirt buttons strain across his chest.

  There’s a rehearsed sense to their movements, and Alex assumes a plan has been hatched in the time since she was deposited in this room—a discussion about how to handle her, to get what they need.

  ‘Alex, we’re sorry about your friend.’ Yardley’s voice is soft, her body language friendly, but Alex feels anything but reassured. Something tells her Yardley will be quick to pounce at the first opportunity.

  Alex doesn’t move, just stares at her hands.

  Yardley continues. ‘I know it’s been a long day, Alex, and you’re upset, but we really need you to tell us what happened last night, so we can help you. Can you do that?’

  ‘No,’ she whispers, surprised to find her throat aches.

  ‘We need you to try, Alex. We need to understand what happened. Earlier, you said you and Nicole left the house after everyone went home. Is that right?’

  Alex closes her eyes. She is back in the house on Paradise Street. In the kitchen. Cooking. Talking to Miles. Talking to the girls. Drinking. It had started out like so many other nights, but there had been no denying the nasty undercurrent. ‘Yes. We went for a walk.’

  Yardley looks puzzled. ‘Were you meeting someone?’

  ‘No, ah, we were just walking.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We just were.’

  Yardley tilts her head. ‘Where did you go?’

  Alex is running, running away from the house. ‘Just around. Like, not very far.’

  ‘Did Nicole return to the house with you?’

  Alex has the feeling again, of wanting to go back in time, to undo all the things that have been done. But it’s impossible, like trying to scratch an itch in the marrow of her bones.

  ‘No. She ran off. After that I was on my own.’

  Yardley blinks. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Alex is crying now.

  No one speaks for a few moments.

  ‘You don’t know why she ran off,’ says Yardley. ‘That’s okay. We can come back to that, see if there’s more you can remember about it later.’

  Bowman writes something in his notebook, and a shrill sound builds in Alex’s brain.

  The night air is on her cheeks, the salty breeze from the sea. Nicole walking next to her, talking on the phone. Alex feels worried, worried it’s all about to fall apart.

  ‘What about when you came back?’ Yardley presses. ‘We know you returned to the house at some point before 3 am. Can you tell us about that?’

  Alex can feel the eyes of the chief inspector on her. Gazing with pity? Frustration? Disgust? She shakes her head vigorously, trying to block out the noise as it climbs, higher and higher, like a kettle boiling.

  ‘Alex?’

  She’s lying on her side, arms and legs brick-heavy with booze and drugs. The dull ache of fading rage. She is sick of fighting, sick of everything. The front door is open, and it’s cold; she feels the shudder of the floorboards. Footsteps. Soft and firm. Firm and soft. Voices.

  ‘What about your housemate Evelyn? Did you see her? Talk to her?’

  Alex blocks her ears with her palms, tears and snot dripping onto the table. She opens her eyes. The world is sideways, but she recognises the familiar hallway. Upturned furniture. Milk-pale skin. The knife in her hand.

  ‘All I remember is the blood,’ she whispers. ‘There was just so much blood.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  TUESDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 2015

  THE ONLY SOUND IN THE ROOM IS PIA’S TYPING. THE BLOOD DRAINS from Oli’s face, and she sinks into the nearest chair before her legs buckle. The name Nicole Horrowitz creates an instant file path in her brain to a slew of old images and news headlines. Nicole and her former housemates are in the same category as Azaria Chamberlain and the Beaumont Children; their case is an unsolved mystery firmly fixed in Australia’s collective psyche, journalistic gum on the nation’s shoe. Oli has worked enough stories to know that some just have the X factor, the perfect mix of ingredients, a plot and characters that keep people wanting more. Try as the media overlords might, they just can’t orchestrate that desired alchemy—sometimes death simply falls flat. But the Housemate Homicide had been a newspaper editor’s wet dream from the start, and despite Alexandra Riboni’s swift conviction, there has always been something off about the whole thing. It lacks the neatness of a clear motive. It lacks closure.

  ‘She was found this morning. By a jogger, apparently.’ One of Dawn’s bright-red nails is chipped, and Oli’s eyes are drawn to the blemish as she waves her hands around.

  While Oli is taller than average, Dawn is at least six foot and her extremely feminine wardrobe of colourful blouses and floral dresses jars with her broad frame.

  ‘He spotted a woman’s body hanging from a tree,’ Dawn concludes, ‘and called triple zero.’

  ‘Jog ruined.’ TJ’s face is lit with the glow from his laptop screen.

  Oli is struggling to get words out. ‘Where?’

  ‘Tiny little place called Crystalbrook, up in the Dandenongs.’

  Oli swallows. ‘And it was a suicide?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Dawn shakes her head from side to side in what is likely an attempt at expressing empathy, but there’s a savage glint in her eye.

  A panicky feeling has taken over Oli, and the coffee lurches in her gut. She summons a visual of the house on Paradise Street. Remembers watching from her car as Isabelle escorted a blood-spattered Alex Riboni from the scene. Remembers Evelyn Stanley being carried out in the body bag. Can still hear Yardley’s crisp address to the media the following day.

  It feels like yesterday, but it was almost ten years ago.

  ‘Nicole was alive the whole time?’ Oli says stupidly.

  ‘She was,’ agrees Dawn, ‘and now she’s not again.’

  ‘Alex didn’t kill her,’ Oli murmurs. Her eyes lock with Dawn’s, then TJ’s. This is huge. Oli swallows. ‘Is it definitely her?’

  Dawn leans across the table. ‘It’s not official yet, but it’s what I’m hearing from my source. Apparently, they found her old ID on the scene. It looks like she’s been hiding away up there for years.’

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘Yep.’ Dawn steps back from the table, looking pleased. ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘How long ago was it called in?’

  ‘We got word around twenty minutes ago. When I phoned you.’

  Oli connects the dots. It’s early days, but word will spread like a match hitting gas. ‘Who else has it?’

  Dawn’s face darkens. ‘We don’t know. Nothing is live yet, aside from reports of the body, and the only reason that blew up was because the jogger’s wife posted about it on social media. She’s a fitness guru with an Instagram following, so one of the TV networks picked it up.’ Dawn blows her fringe out of her eyes. ‘I’d say everyone is fact checking. You know how it goes—if we have it, they have it.’

  ‘When are we breaking it?’

  ‘We’re going live at 9 am. Basic speculation only. Then we’ll do updates on the hour, get some old shots up until we have something new.’

  Oli’s eyes glaze over as she starts to draft the copy in her head. One of the missing pieces in the Housemate Homicide puzzle turned up this morning. Nicole Horrowitz, presumed murdered, was found dead by suicide in the rural suburb of Crystalbrook. Her whereabouts for the past decade remains a mystery.

  ‘I want you on this, Oli, one hundred per cent,’ Dawn says. ‘I wanted you on your way there now, but you weren’t answering your phone, which completely baffles me.’

  Oli’s face flushes. ‘I—’

  Dawn holds out a hand and closes her eyes as if Oli is a small child who has made an unholy mess. ‘It baffles me, but I don’t want to discuss it. I just want a dirty big deep dive into this whole thing. It’s perfect timing with the ten
-year anniversary looming, and I’m thinking we’ll do a double-spread feature Saturday week, maybe a four-pager. Gwen can push on with the other feature we planned for the anniversary but ramp it up a bit, make it more of a tribute to Evelyn. I want you to cover the crime, the conviction and Alex’s appeal. I want you to dig the whole mess back up and flog the living shit out of it. Drop that garbage you’re writing about the prostitutes and get your arse up to the scene.’ Dawn plucks a Post-it from her notebook and squints at it; her eyesight is appalling, but she refuses to admit it. ‘Take Cooper Ng from Kylie’s team with you. Apparently he’s got an interview lined up with Alex Riboni for the true crime podcast we’re doing. I don’t know the details, but that interview is absolutely key now, so make sure you get him to lock it in with her asap, then you can take over. We need to turn it into an exclusive.’

  ‘You want me to take him to the scene?’ Oli says, confused.

  ‘Apparently he’s good with a camera, so it saves me finding a photographer to go with you.’

  ‘Sorry, who is Cooper Ng?’ Oli says, just as TJ says, ‘We’re doing a podcast?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dawn snorts. ‘We’re “diversifying our revenue streams”, which may or may not be code for turning us into a radio station.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, the kid is on level three with the digital team. Kylie tells me he’s not a bad interviewer. Clearly the bar is getting lower and lower these days, but based on my conversation with him this morning I can confirm he has the gift of the gab, so maybe she’s right.’

  Oli has no idea who Cooper Ng is—there are lots of new faces upstairs, and she generally tries to avoid the digital department. But whoever he is, she’s not happy about having to make small talk on a long car trip with some stranger. ‘Can’t I take Knowles?’

  ‘Nope, he’s on the trial,’ Dawn says. ‘Just get moving, Oli, I want something meaty online before the 6 pm news, and I want to run a secondary story online later as well, which we can push hard in print tomorrow. So get whatever you can. See if the cops will talk and if any locals knew her. TJ’s obviously tied up with O’Brien, but Pia can do some background on the property for you and stay across the police reports and news coverage.’

  Oli stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She hesitates before saying, ‘You know I covered the Housemate Homicide back then, when I was at The Daily?’

  Dawn gives her a strange look. ‘Yes, that’s why I want you on it now.’

  TJ is waiting for her outside the bathroom. ‘Bloody good story,’ he remarks.

  ‘Sure is.’

  He frowns. ‘You okay?’

  She nods. She and TJ have seen it all over the years: bosses have come and gone, they’ve moved papers and offices, they’ve navigated new media laws and the seemingly never-ending digital transformation. Both landed in crime early. TJ joined The Daily around two years before Oli, and she’s been playing catch up ever since. Back then he was still Timothy Jack, a charming young man who tried, but regularly failed, to check his privilege. The silver spoon has left a permanent dint in his mouth, but at least he’s aware of it. Despite their differences and inevitable competitiveness, they’ve always been firm friends, though Oli wonders if that’s just because he has never seen her as a real threat.

  Three years ago, Dawn promoted Oli to a senior role alongside TJ when the legendary Martin Boon retired. TJ still tends to get the bigger stories, but there are generally enough to go around. Oli has the sense that he enjoys their gentle rivalry; it keeps him on his toes without giving him a serious run for his money.

  Her phone starts ringing: Dean. She switches it to silent.

  TJ’s gaze is unrelenting.

  ‘I didn’t sleep very well last night, but I’m fine.’

  He cracks his knuckles. Crosses his arms. ‘I wasn’t asking how you slept, Ol.’ His spotless white shirt looks brand new and hugs his chest and shoulders. He always seems so put together. In all the years they’ve known each other, Oli has rarely seen him lose his cool. He is as reliable as the paper, turning up day after day, dark-gold hair neat, ready with an easy smile and a wry quip. He and his wife Angela don’t have children; they own two large dogs, and an apartment full of gadgets and designer furniture. They go skiing in New Zealand every August and are constantly training for a marathon.

  ‘I’m fine, TJ,’ Oli insists.

  ‘Okay.’ But he doesn’t uncross his arms. His eyes dart left, then right, and he leans closer, ‘I really thought there was going to be a sweep this week.’

  ‘I figured when I saw Joosten in the office on Monday. I actually thought that’s what Dawn was about to announce when I came in.’

  ‘Yeah.’ TJ grimaces. ‘Joosten met with me yesterday. He seemed to be sussing out my thoughts on Dawn—you know, if she’s cut out for the future shape of the business. I think he’s considering another restructure.’

  Oli’s brain feels scrambled. This Nicole Horrowitz thing has really thrown her. Suddenly all she can think about is Isabelle. ‘Joosten wanted to talk to you about Dawn?’

  Oli usually gets along well with Alistair Joosten, the Sydney-based managing director. They have a shared interest in celebrity memoirs and cryptic crosswords. But he didn’t give her so much as a second glance this visit. And Dawn? Surely she’s not on the chopping block? She’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but she’s tough and she works her arse off. Oli would rather work for her than have some new boss to impress; someone with an onslaught of ideas and a remit to cut costs.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Oli asks.

  TJ hesitates. ‘I kept my cards pretty close to my chest. Said it was a tough market right now, what with social media leading the news and all the traditional networks investing so heavily in online platforms. I mean, it’s no secret our advertising model is turning to shit. Blah, blah, blah. But I told him Dawn seems to be holding it together, all things considered.’ TJ flashes his white teeth. ‘I think Joosten is a bit scared of her.’

  ‘He’s not an idiot,’ agrees Oli, wondering whether TJ is being completely straight with her. If he senses weakness in Dawn, will he pounce? Oli’s also vaguely annoyed that Joosten didn’t seek out her opinion.

  ‘It’s funny, you know,’ TJ says, ‘but even though I know the headlines, I can’t for the life of me remember the details of the Housemate story. I guess I was up to my ears in the Carter kidnapping and just never touched it.’ A little smile plays on his lips. ‘I do remember good old Jo riding your arse something chronic, though. God, she was a slavedriver.’

  Oli is keen to change the subject. ‘Do you reckon O’Brien will get off today?’

  TJ makes a face. ‘Probably. The guy’s a piece of shit, but he’s a clever piece of shit. He covered his tracks pretty well, and there’re still a lot of people barracking for him.’

  Oli sighs. ‘God, it’s depressing. Dean reckons he was always a total creep.’

  ‘I know. No matter what the ruling is, I’m hoping his wife will still talk to me. I’ve been working her for weeks, and I think she’s ready. She’s been staying at a hotel since July, you know. I doubt she’ll stand by him now, not after yesterday’s statements. It’s too humiliating.’ He grins. ‘Getting her on the record will be pure gold. She might offer up stuff that hasn’t come out yet.’

  A feeling flares in Oli, the kind she occasionally gets when she talks to TJ. The sense that she’ll never be as good as he is because she lacks the wiring that makes him the ultimate journalist: the ability to shut off all emotion, to work a story like a robot.

  Dawn barrels out of her office and stalks toward the news desk.

  ‘I better go.’ Oli shuffles out of her boss’s line of sight. ‘I need to find this Cooper kid. Hopefully he can actually take a decent photo.’

  TJ laughs. ‘It sounds like he’s a slight upgrade from a work experience intern.’ He runs his hand through his hair.

  She steps past him. ‘Well, good luck out there.’ It’s what they always say to each other.

  ‘You
too.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Hey, didn’t Dean’s wife lead the Housemate Homicide case? I’m sure she did.’

  Oli remembers the haughty flick of Isabelle’s ponytail, the burn of her gaze. The younger version of herself kissing Dean outside her apartment in a taxi and stumbling around the city trying to crack a story. So desperate to prove herself.

  She lifts her shoulders as casually as possible, relieved TJ can’t see the flush creeping up the front of her neck. ‘Yes, I think she might have.’

  Three Christmases ago, the newspaper’s digital department moved from the ground floor to level three, joining the sales department while leapfrogging news and editorial on level two.

  ‘This is a bad sign,’ TJ had predicted at the time, as they watched the surprisingly large stream of people make their way up the open stairwell, carrying Apple laptops and portable speakers. ‘It’s a physical depiction of the pecking order, Oli. We’ll be in the basement by 2020.’ Oli had thought he was being overly dramatic and told him so, but then the research team switched with finance a year later and now sit in what is virtually an oversized cupboard next to the ground-floor toilets. Plus, when the editorial team’s fridge broke last month and Oli ventured up to the third floor for some milk, she discovered a cafe-grade coffee machine and a cupboard full of herbal tea.

  Apparently TJ was right: in this new era of journalism, digital is clearly closer to heaven.

  Oli reaches level three and finds Kylie Archer, who points out Cooper Ng. Kylie has been with the paper for over fifteen years, dodging the multiple waves of redundancies and embracing the increasingly digital world with her trademark gusto. She’s the kind of person you can’t picture ever being a little girl, sporting the same spiky bleached blonde hair the entire time Oli has known her. She has a penchant for themed jewellery, and today bright-yellow daffodils dangle from her earlobes. ‘Cooper’s good, Oli. Annoying, definitely, but he’s good.’