by Sarah Bailey
Oli feels the familiar pinch of guilt. Who is she to judge how Dean grieves? She’s never lost a partner, let alone a husband. Plus she’s still here, she’s with Dean, and Isabelle is far from being any kind of threat. So why then does she feel so uneasy? Is it because, deep down, she’s worried that karma is yet to play out? She sighs. Navigating the ghost of Isabelle isn’t getting any easier. The shock of her death is still raw. Even now when Oli thinks about it, her muscles tense and her pulse quickens.
That morning, Oli woke up at Rusty’s. They both had the weekend off and were planning lazy brunches and maybe a movie. She stumbled into the shower, while he stayed in bed watching sport on his laptop. Eventually he joined her, singing loudly and off key, and she swatted at him with a face washer and got soap in her eye. Wrapped awkwardly in one of his cheap towels, she was looking into the foggy mirror, pulling gently at the corner of her throbbing eye, when the story came on the radio.
‘It is believed that the detective was heading home from a local gym when she was struck down just after six this morning. The driver failed to stop at the scene, and the body of the detective was discovered by a local resident who called for an ambulance.’
Oli knew it was Isabelle. She just knew. She ran into the lounge, clutching at her eye and rifling through the cushions on the couch in a desperate search for the remote. She cried out impatiently as she jabbed at the buttons until she found the 24/7 news channel. They were running footage of a suburban road dotted with witch’s hats. Images of Isabelle flashed onto the screen.
Oli sank to the floor just as Rusty walked in, still singing. His gaze bounced from Oli’s face to the screen. ‘Jesus, what the fuck?’
She didn’t reply. She didn’t even blink, just stared at the TV for what felt like hours. Footage came and went of Isabelle at press conferences, even a photo of her with Dean and the girls. Her name ran along the bottom of the screen, and Oli pictured the crash scene so many times, could see Isabelle’s broken body lying on the road so clearly, that she wondered if it was possible she’d done it in her sleep.
While Rusty fielded calls from shocked colleagues, all Oli could think about was Dean: how he was coping, and whether there was now a chance they could be together. Rusty had no idea about her history with Dean, and she wonders how he felt when he found out she and Dean were together a few months after they eventually split.
‘Oh, you silly thing,’ the older lady exclaims as the little girl steers her trike off the path.
As Oli watches the lady get it back on track, she fishes in her bag for a muesli bar. She chews on it, thinking about the conversation with Cara, her mention of the argument over a computer. What could it have been about? Maybe one of the girls discovered an incriminating email—Miles cheating on Alex with Evelyn? Nicole might have found out and told Alex, who retaliated in the worst possible way. Nicole felt guilty enough to panic and go into hiding. Or what if one of the girls stumbled across evidence of McCrae being in a relationship with a student, and they were blackmailing him? But they weren’t in high school—would it really have been that scandalous?
Oli needs to speak to Miles. And the neighbours, Matt and Ren. And Professor McCrae. The other guests.
She starts with Tanya and Roy. Their Facebook profiles reveal they are no longer together, although both now live overseas. Their accounts are set to private. She shoots them each a quick generic message asking for a quick chat. Amber doesn’t come up in the search and she’s not on LinkedIn either.
Next Oli calls the mobile numbers she has for Matt and Ren, but neither connects. She searches on Facebook, and Matt’s page loads, an out-of-date profile with dozens of condolence messages on its wall. He died in an accident a few years ago; the unexpected news is sobering as Oli scrolls through his friends list. She finds Ren, but he hasn’t used Facebook in years; his profile photo is a shot of a border collie. She sends him a quick message, then realises she has a landline number scribbled in her old notebook below his mobile number. She calls. It goes straight to voicemail with no recorded message, so she identifies herself and asks that he call her back.
She plugs Miles’s name into Facebook, but gets too many results to sort through easily. She switches to Google and adds ‘Melbourne’ to the search. Hundreds of news articles come up, as well as a LinkedIn profile with his picture. She recognises him easily: serious face, short black hair. Assuming his profile is up to date, he’s currently an accountant at a firm called Stawell & Finch. She googles the company and finds a number for reception.
When Oli and Jo spoke to Miles back in 2005, he was awkward and a little standoffish. But in fairness, not many people are prepared to be thrust viciously into the spotlight, to suddenly see their own face splashed across the front pages of the paper. To have their girlfriend of two years accused of murder.
Oli calls the number and speaks to a pleasant woman called Bridie with a strong British accent. ‘Miles is very popular today!’ she trills. ‘But he’s not in. Can I get him to call you back?’
‘Do you think he’ll be in tomorrow?’ Oli asks casually.
‘I’d say so. He’s unwell, but I don’t think it’s serious. Where did you say you were from?’
‘It’s Sarah Finlayson from the tax office.’
Bridie takes her number. ‘I’ll have him call you as soon as possible,’ she says earnestly.
‘Great, thank you!’
Oli strongly suspects Miles’s sickie is related to his past hurtling so abruptly into his present, but hopefully Bridie’s right and he’ll be in tomorrow. Oli needs to find an edge to this case, something beyond the old facts.
There’s no phone number for McCrae in her old notes, just an email address. She searches online for current information about the psychology professor but again can only find an email address and she is pretty sure she won’t get a reply if she sends him a message. Maybe Dean can help her get in touch with him, via his contacts at the university, though she suspects he won’t like to be asked.
She quickly checks Twitter. It doesn’t seem like anything new has surfaced since she left the office, but Channel Seven has started promoting their interview with Geraldine Stanley. Dawn will be spitting chips.
Oli launches Facebook on her phone again. There’s an account for Mitchell Stanley. She enlarges the profile image, which is obviously very old, from his football days. He looks tanned and healthy, with white teeth and sparkling aqua eyes, a far cry from the clammy drunk who made such a scene outside Alex Riboni’s appeal. Oli sends a message explaining who she is and asking that he call her.
It seems none of the other party guests have online profiles. Oli finds Cara Horrowitz’s Instagram account, but it’s set to private. The profile picture shows her holding a baby.
Oli searches the Housemate Homicide groups that Cooper mentioned, her eyes widening as she scrolls through the swathes of comments. It would be easy to get lost in this world for hours: the pages and pages of speculation, the baseless arguments about what happened. She takes screenshots of some of the more impassioned posts, wondering whether she and Cooper can weave the commentary into the podcast. On Twitter, a handful of people are proclaiming sympathy for Alex, but the majority ascribe her suicide to guilt. Between the Housemate Homicide resurgence and the O’Brien saga, new tweets are loading faster than Oli can read.
Who were the other people Jo hustled to speak with back then? Parents, friends. University staff. Before long, their faces blur into one another in Oli’s mind.
She wanders back to Lygon Street and buys a Krispy Kreme doughnut from the 7-Eleven on the corner and takes a seat on the bench out the front. She eats as she reads her emails, feeling increasingly restless. Still ninety minutes until the press conference. She calls Cooper.
‘Oli, hi. Hang on.’ A scuffling sound. ‘I’ve just put you on speaker. Hello, can you hear me? Shit, Oli, driving this car is incredible, by the way. I think we understand each other now.’
She smiles in spite of herself. ‘I’m g
lad you’re enjoying it. Just be mindful you’re not on my insurance policy. I spoke to Cara Horrowitz, Nicole’s sister.’
‘You did? That’s great! How did you manage that?’
‘She still has the same phone number. I called her, and she agreed to meet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Mm,’ Cooper says after she has relayed her meeting with Cara. ‘I’m obviously no expert, being an only child, but couldn’t her vibe just be good old-fashioned sibling jealousy? With Cara being adopted, that must have created a strange dynamic.’
Oli stuffs the last of the doughnut into her mouth, vaguely annoyed by his assessment. ‘I think a few things she said are worth pursuing, especially if Nicole wasn’t as perfect as everyone made her out to be.’
‘I guess.’
‘Anyway, it’s the comment she made about the computer that really has me interested. I don’t remember that coming up before, and if Cara’s right about the argument she overheard, it might mean something.’
‘Yeah, that part doesn’t sound like something she would make up.’
‘Hopefully we can get on to Miles and see what he knows.’
‘Do you think Cara would go on the podcast?’
‘She said she hates journalists, although she did end up being happy to talk. It’s like she’s still trying to figure Nicole out.’
‘I’ll speak to her. Send me her number?’
Oli ignores him. ‘We need to look into a possible link between Alex’s job and Crystalbrook.’ She explains the article Brent and Pia found. ‘What about you? Any luck out there?’
‘I think so.’ Controlled excitement creeps into Cooper’s voice. ‘There were cops everywhere, so I was, like, trying to be discreet, but I found a guy who was happy to talk to me. He works at the petrol station. Benny. He says he knows Nicole, but he said she looks really different now, which fits with what the supermarket lady told us. And Benny told me he’s always known Nicole as Nat.’
‘Any idea how she was supporting herself?’
‘He wasn’t sure. Said she seemed arty, like a hippy.’
‘Helpful.’
‘He actually was,’ Cooper says earnestly. ‘Nicole filled up her car on Monday night.’
‘Model?’ Oli barks.
‘A 2011 Subaru Forester. Teal.’ He doesn’t hide the pride in his voice, and Oli navigates a strange cocktail of anticipation and irritation that he has such a good lead.
‘What about a kid?’
‘Yes,’ Cooper breathes. ‘He said she pretty much always has Evie with her. The kid was with her on Monday. Apparently, Nicole told Benny she’d broken up with her boyfriend and was planning on leaving Crystalbrook.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
OLI OPENS HER LAPTOP RIGHT THERE ON THE PARK BENCH AND starts typing: HOUSEMATE HOMICIDE, HORROWITZ ON THE RUN. She puts it all in: Evie, Cooper’s conversation with Benny, the description of the car and the possibility of a recent break-up. She even alludes to an incriminating letter being found at the scene. At the last minute she adds Cooper’s name to her by-line before shooting it off to Dawn.
She calls Cooper back. ‘You should stay in Crystalbrook. See who else will talk to you. And try to find out who the boyfriend was—if he exists.’
‘I’m already on it,’ he says, sounding pleased. ‘I’m asking lots of questions and most people seem happy to talk to me.’
‘Good. And try to talk to the cops. If they think you have new information, they might be willing to do an exchange.’
‘Okay, talk to the cops. No problem.’ Cooper sounds less confident.
‘We need to discuss the podcast too. I’m thinking the first episode can be a detailed overview of what we know about that night on Paradise Street. I can describe what it was like to be at the house the morning Evelyn’s body was found, so we don’t need to sort out any interviews. It will buy us some time.’
‘I like that. Yes, that’s good.’ Cooper’s voice brims with excitement.
‘And we need to speak to the legal team about using grabs from your phone call with Alex. If we can include her voice in the promos, I don’t think we’ll need to worry about getting an advertiser.’
‘Shit, are you serious?’
‘Of course. We’re sitting on pure gold, but we need to cross our t’s, dot the i’s.’
‘Okay, I’ll call them.’
‘Chat later.’ Oli shuts her laptop. A strong wind has come out of nowhere, and it matches her mood. Leaves swirl in mini-tornadoes while tree branches buck dangerously at parked cars. She hails a cab that deposits her back in the city, and she ducks across William Street just as it starts to drizzle. A woman in a tight pencil skirt hobbles past, yelling into her phone, her suit jacket shielding her hair from the rain.
Oli flattens herself against the wall so she’s under the laneway awning. Her phone beeps with a Facebook message from Mitchell Stanley. I will call u 2morrow.
‘Yes,’ she whispers. Finally some traction.
She fires a message back. Great, thank you. I look forward to hearing what you have to say. Happy to meet in person if you like.
She calls Dean.
‘I can’t believe the news about Julie O’Brien,’ he breathes. ‘I mean, I know John’s a prick but, still, it’s awful.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty sad.’
‘Anyway, how are you feeling? You didn’t take my advice and work from home?’
‘No. How do you know that?’
‘You’re not the only investigative journalist in the house,’ he teases. ‘I can hear you’re outside, and it doesn’t sound like the noise our garden makes.’
Oli looks around; the laneway is shielded from the hubbub of the city. ‘There’s too much to do. I had to come into the office.’
‘I caught the news before. I can’t believe it was the other girl up in Crystalbrook. It’s crazy.’
‘It’s been pretty hectic. I’m about to go to the press conference.’
‘You’re at police HQ?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m just around the corner.’ He drops his voice. ‘Shame I can’t sneak out to meet you. Like old times.’
Her stomach flips gently. He rarely refers to their past, the strange sixteen months when they met in secret, in the middle of the day, at night. When he would come to her apartment early in the morning, stay for a blissful hour, then go, leaving her giddy but also unsure if she would ever see him again.
After he made contact eighteen months ago, their previous intimacy allowed them to accelerate into a familiar rhythm. But the removal of all restraint, the complete lack of caution, meant it felt new. Oli could see him whenever she wanted. Call him. Touch him. There was such freedom to it, such abandon. But since she moved in, it’s been different. Dean has been different.
She catches her reflection in a tinted car window, sees the line of worry etched between her brows. ‘I’d like that,’ she says, tears welling in her eyes.
‘I’m trying not to think about it,’ he adds huskily. ‘I have too much to do today, and I can’t afford to be distracted.’
‘Dean, do you think there’s a chance you can put me in touch with Julian McCrae?’ she blurts, knowing she has sabotaged the moment but too desperate for information to care.
‘Julian McCrae?’
‘Yes. He was the professor at the Housemate Homicide party, and he works at Melbourne uni. I really want to talk to him.’
‘I know who he is, Ol, but I’d really prefer you don’t chase him down. He’s highly respected, and I don’t want the uni embroiled in another scandal. One’s enough for now, and Nath would lose it if something else blew up. He’s anxious enough as it is.’
‘I’m not accusing McCrae of anything, I just want to ask him some questions.’
‘Sorry, Ol. If you really need to talk to him, you’ll have to figure it out, but I wish you’d just leave it alone. He was cleared back then, so I don’t see the point in rehashing it now. Look, I’ve got to go. Don’t work too hard, okay?’<
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Stung, she stands there for a few moments before calling Pia and asking her to track down McCrae’s home phone number. ‘I’m guessing he won’t be listed, so perhaps try his wife,’ Oli suggests.
Ignoring the pointed stare of a barista, she sneaks into the bathroom in the cafe next to the police station. She uses the toilet then washes and dries her hands, runs a brush through her hair, reapplies her make-up. In the stuffy police foyer, she joins the growing line to go through security. As she pushes her way through the media pack, she scores an elbow to the ear and one to the ribs. Someone hisses her name, and she looks around but fails to locate the source. She finds a spot about ten metres from the media wall behind the TV journos and their cloud of hairspray. A Melbourne Today photographer is up the back: Zach with the neck tattoos. Oli waves, and he gives her a thumbs-up.
Rusty is up the front, facing the crowd. Oli tries to get his attention, but he is deep in conversation with another cop.
A few people gather on stage. A greyhound-thin woman in a sleek pantsuit clutches at a clipboard and stabs her phone with a manicured finger, glancing repeatedly at the audience. A sound guy checks the microphone, and a woman with hearing aids and a long braid stands in front of the Victoria Police pull-up banner.
Bowman appears and walks straight to the raised platform. He looks annoyed, as if he’s been dragged away from the last ten minutes of a sports match. He taps the microphone and nods at the PR woman, who responds with a frantic series of head bobs.
‘Okay, ladies and gentlemen,’ Bowman booms. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
The woman with the braid starts signing in Auslan, and the room settles into the modern white noise of whirring devices and clicking cameras.
‘By now I’m sure you are all aware that the deceased woman discovered on a property in Crystalbrook yesterday was Alexandra Riboni,’ Bowman says. ‘We released this information earlier today. I can now confirm that, based on the autopsy findings, her death is not suspicious.’
A reaction ripples through the audience, and a woman from the ABC calls out something about Nicole Horrowitz.