by Sarah Bailey
‘Is Ren able to speak to me?’ Oli presses.
‘Not right now, he’s not here, but he said he’s happy to talk to you. He called this morning from a mate’s. He doesn’t have a phone at the moment—there was another problem with the payment not going through. His dole money didn’t come when it was supposed to. It’s terrible how they just cut you off like that.’
‘I understand,’ Oli says kindly.
‘But you can go see him if you want. Like I said, he’s happy to talk to you. I’ll give you his address?’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Neroli, that would be very helpful.’
Oli scrawls it down: Bulleen. About a half-hour drive in weekday traffic. ‘I won’t be able to get out there today, but hopefully I can make it first thing tomorrow.’
‘He doesn’t go out much,’ Marion says. ‘He doesn’t have a job at the moment. He likes playing all those online games. I’d say he’ll be home.’
They hang up, and Oli leans back in her chair. This is good: another angle from the night should help validate some of the things Miles told them, and if Ren’s willing to talk, maybe they can get him to be interviewed for the podcast.
She grabs her things and gets the lift to the fifth floor, makes her way down the silent corridor to the studio. Cooper is there, headphones on. He doesn’t look up when she walks in, but he tugs them off his ears.
‘I’ve tracked down Ren Neroli.’
‘Cool.’ Cooper moves the mouse to the left, presses some buttons on the keyboard.
‘I have to head off now, but I’m going to meet with him tomorrow morning, see if he wants to be on the podcast. We should start lining up interviews for the next few episodes. We need to present a range of perspectives from that night—people who knew the girls in different ways.’
‘Obviously.’ He finally looks at her. ‘Mitchell has agreed to an interview. I’m thinking I can go to him. He’s got a private hospital room, so it should be okay to record there.’
Oli cocks her head. ‘You contacted Mitchell Stanley after I spoke to him?’
‘Yep.’
She crosses her arms and curses in frustration. ‘We should talk about how we approach it. We need to think about how we want to tell this story. It can’t just be a series of interviews that we serve up. There needs to be a narrative.’
‘You didn’t ask him about the podcast yesterday, which seemed like a missed opportunity.’ Cooper shifts his arm and accidentally pulls the headphones’ cord out from the computer. A blast of haunting music fills the room before he cuts it off. ‘For now, I’m focused on getting this edit done,’ he says formally. ‘I’ll send it to you in the next few hours. Even though you’re out of the office, do you think you’ll be able to listen to it this afternoon and give me the green light to send it to Dawn?’
Oli’s chest feels tight. ‘Yes, of course, it’s a priority.’
He gives a curt nod and slips his headphones back on, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
She stands there watching him for a minute. ‘Right, well, see you later.’
He lifts his hand, his eyes fixed on the computer monitor.
In the lift, Oli glowers. Cooper’s the one who is out of line. In fact, she wouldn’t have to worry about him at all if he hadn’t bluffed his way into working with her. She wrestles with the resentment that burns through her. Maybe he’ll come around once the first episode is done. No matter what he says, she knows he’s nervous about it; perhaps that’s why he’s acting so childishly. It’s a shame, because they were getting into a rhythm. But they can hardly keep working together if they’re not talking, and this first episode is the easy one. She feels another flutter of her own nerves at the thought of her voice being blasted out into the world. Publishing articles never feels this confronting, and a big part of her wants to head back upstairs and tell Cooper she wants out.
Compared to the quiet of his studio, the newsroom is a madhouse. Her colleagues are still hostages to the bank of screens, typing with one eye fixed on the news reports. An intern in a tie-dyed boilersuit stands at the printer, stapling sheets of paper together before they even have a chance to hit the tray.
‘We’re running it with or without your quote,’ Brent says firmly into his mobile as she walks past. ‘I’ll give you until four pm to come back to me.’ He hangs up with the wild-eyed look of a spooked kitten. Pia’s cheeks are flushed as she types a message on her phone, her foot tapping against the floor.
Remnants of a birthday cake sit on the corner of TJ’s empty desk, a knife lying across the crumby carcass. Oli’s insides clench at the memory of his strange intervention in the car park. They should talk properly, cut the bullshit, but the whole thing just feels so tedious. She really hates the politics, she always has, and she’s aware that her refusal to aggressively play the game might mean she loses. TJ, however, is clearly in his element.
The TV footage cuts to Bowman stepping out from police headquarters. Mics and phones are thrust into his face. He ushers the media away, not bothering to hide his irritation. The entire newsroom quietens; people freeze mid-task or hastily end phone calls.
‘I’ll make this easy for you all.’ Bowman’s voice is gruff but clear. ‘I have no comment regarding the recent accusations against John O’Brien, but they will be dealt with through the appropriate channels. If an arrest is made, I’m sure you will all follow the necessary reporting rules. In relation to Alexandra Riboni’s death, there is growing evidence Ms Riboni’s mental health deteriorated over the past few weeks, and we believe she may have gone to the property with the intention of causing harm to a former acquaintance before deciding to end her life. We believe this incident triggered a chain of events that has led to the disappearance of a young woman.’ He brings his stocky fingers together and looks around with a sense of non-negotiable finality. ‘That’s it, folks, I have a meeting to get to.’
A few feeble cries follow his hunched figure up the footpath. The live cross cuts back to the studio with graphics behind the anchor reading, ANOTHER O’BRIEN VICTIM? The same tired montage fills the screen, ending with the earlier footage of the accuser’s walrus-like lawyer holding court with the pack of journalists.
Oli almost goes straight back up to the studio to discuss Bowman’s theory with Cooper. Is he right? Did a mentally unstable Alex Riboni track her old friend down in Crystalbrook and attempt to finish the job she started all those years ago? Did she hold Nicole responsible for what happened to Evelyn, blame her for the time she spent in gaol? But then, why did Alex end her own life? Maybe she wanted Nicole to find her body as some kind of punishment. And what about the fire? Was it intentional?
Oli blinks several times, trying to rally her tired eyes. There’s no point interrupting Cooper again today, but tomorrow they’re going to have to call a truce. She checks the time: just over two hours until the swimming carnival. She heads to the lift and down to the car park, her long hair flying behind her.
Oli hangs her bag on a kitchen chair. A pigeon parades along the window ledge, stopping every few steps to peer down its beak at her. The appliances gleam, and the marble bench is spotless. Thursday, of course: cleaning day. How odd to have a stranger come here, touching their things and judging their lives. Her father was always yelling at her mother about the state of the house, not that he was ever motivated enough to clean it himself.
Oli removes a glass from the dishwasher, fills it with water and drinks slowly. Sometimes when she thinks about how different her life is compared to twelve months ago, it’s overwhelming. She often feels like she doesn’t quite measure up to her new surrounds. Only her work is the same, and even that seems to be slipping out from under her.
Just after she moved in, she invited her mother and stepfather over. She hated the way Sally Groves’s eyes widened as she entered each room; the way her head bobbed stupidly as she took it all in. ‘Well, Olive,’ she said, perched on the couch next to Max, her lipsticked mouth pulling into a squishy pout as she sipped the expensive ch
ampagne Dean had insisted on opening, ‘aren’t you lucky. This is certainly quite a house. And Dean’s girls are lovely.’
Oli couldn’t wait for them to leave. For Sally to stop looking at everything—to stop being so obvious.
She puts her glass down too quickly, and its rattle against the marble echoes around the house. Through the archway, the gauzy curtains in the lounge flare out from the window. Resettle.
The house was renovated right before the twins were born; Dean mentioned once that the last lick of paint was applied just in time. A new kitchen and bathroom, the entire upstairs remodelled. State-of-the-art technology in every room, security systems and surround sound. Oli can imagine the petite detective stalking through the sunlit rooms, gliding down the staircase like a cat. Dean mentioned a while ago that Oli should suggest some changes, make sure it feels like her home too, but she can’t see how her relaxed bohemian style will work with the sleek lines and monochrome colour scheme.
The grandfather clock starts to chime. An uneasy feeling takes hold. The high ceilings and abundance of space make her feel vulnerable. Even though she was often alone in her old apartment, she always felt safe. The old couple next door bickered constantly, the dog on level one yapped at people walking past, and the three young guys in number five often had friends over. The flat was hardly big enough for a kitchen table yet it was all she needed.
Oddly, her favourite room in this house is Isabelle’s old study.
Oli straightens, her ears tuning in to the silence. She quickly texts Dean. Hey, are you still at work?
Dots appear on her screen, followed by a message. Sure am, why? You’re at home?
She pictures the wedding dress in the cupboard upstairs. Just wrapping up a few things at the office. I’ll leave to pick up the girls soon.
Her thighs burning, she takes the stairs two at a time. The second-last step creaks loudly, and her throat tightens. She reaches out to hold the bannister. From the ceiling above the staircase, Alex Riboni swings, lifeless and limp. Oli folds forward, dizzy. She’s barely eaten today. There’s a dark shape on the floor a little further down the dark corridor. What is that? Music fills the house. Kate playing the piano? The sound triggers a flood of memories. Sneaking into the house to grab some things, she didn’t want to see her mother, didn’t want to endure another draining exchange. Music was playing that day too. She slips past the photo of Isabelle, her reflection a white blur on the detective’s perfect face.
Oli stumbles into the bedroom. She changes her clothes, out of breath. Stop, Oli, breathe.
Still the music plays. She knows she must be imagining it, but she can hear it, feel it, vibrating through the floorboards. She lurches forward, her hands braced against the bed as the old shock knifes her, fresh and real. Sunlight pushes in around the closed curtains. The pill bottle, the upended bottle of gin. The stench of vomit and perfume. Music playing from somewhere. Her mother’s limp hand, fingers curled toward the ceiling. The glistening white crescents of her eyes. The cluster of melting candles crammed onto the bedside table, billowing smoke from the tips of their flames.
Oli falls to her knees, lurching toward Sally Groves. ‘Mum? Mum! No. No.’ Eyes shut and gripping the bedhead, seventeen-year-old Oli gathers her mother’s limp body into her lap, pushing dirty blonde hair from Sally’s cold face. ‘Mum!’ A sob erupts from Oli, and she gasps for air. Sally moans, and Oli almost chokes on a surge of hope. She shakes her mother gently at first, then more frantically. ‘Mum, please. Come on. I’m going to get help, I promise.’
Oli grabs the phone from the other side of the bed, her father’s side, empty for years now. She is surprised to see a couple of books and a pen. No one ever got rid of his things. He’s still here, still hurting them.
She calls triple zero. ‘Ambulance!’ she tells the emergency services after giving the address. ‘Please hurry. It’s my mum.’
Oli drops the phone on the floor and returns to Sally. As she shakes her, talks to her, begs her to live, she notices an open notebook on the carpet. One of Oli’s old journals, with lines and lines of her neat handwriting detailing her deepest secrets. ‘Oh god, Mum, no. What have you done?’ Tears drip down Oli’s face as she gropes Sally’s neck for a pulse. ‘Mum, please.’ Oli flips the notebook shut and kicks it under the bed.
She can’t feel anything. She lies Sally on the ground and starts CPR. One, two, three, four. In, out. Pray. One, two, three, four. In, out. Pray.
Oli stands up, the horror slowly fading. The candlelight disappears, but her hand still grips her throat. A sob escapes her mouth, and she wipes at her eyes impatiently. What has got into her? There’s no point reliving that awful moment.
Disoriented, she heads to Isabelle’s study, where the glaring sunlight showcases flecks of dust that float across the room. Oli wants to try on the dresses, but that would be crazy. They won’t fit her, anyway.
A message pings on her phone, the blast of sound almost causing her to drop it.
I hope work has been okay. Tell the girls good luck from me. It’s looking pretty doubtful I’ll get to the pool but I’ll try. Have fun x
Oli expels a lungful of breath. Relax, she orders herself. Dean is still at work, and he thinks she’s at the office. She places her phone on the sofa and opens the cupboard. Pauses. Zips open the third clothing bag and fingers the delicate material.
She lets out a laugh. She’s being ridiculous.
After zipping the bag closed with a flourish, she scans the neat stacks of boxes. Her eyes climb higher to more boxes and several fabric bags. More of Dean and Isabelle’s shared history. How often does Dean think about his old life? He must compare her with Isabelle all the time; it would be impossible not to.
Oli stands on the arm of the sofa, carefully reaches up, and manoeuvres down the closest box on the upper shelf and two of the bags. The box is full of cards and school reports. Oli reads a few of the cards, most from Isabelle’s twenty-first birthday. The first bag contains postcards, folded pieces of paper and hundreds of loose photos. She reads a postcard Dean sent to Isabelle from Thailand in 2003, his loopy font exactly as it is today. There are photos of them at a wedding, and of them skiing somewhere, Isabelle’s pretty face split in half by a smile.
The last bag contains a few more photos and several notebooks. The photos are of Isabelle as a little girl taken at some kind of gymnastics competition. She looks eerily like the twins. Oli puts them aside and flicks through the first one, A5 with a flecked gold cover. It’s full of to-do and shopping lists.
The other three notebooks have navy covers. One is from 2005, the others from 2006 and 2011. The Victoria Police insignia is embossed in the lower right corners.
Oli gasps. When Isabelle died, these diaries should have been tagged and processed, sent off to the police archives. They shouldn’t be here.
Shaking, she opens the 2005 diary and fans through the pages. It’s full of Isabelle’s distinctive handwriting. Appointments are recorded in the daily planner, followed by several pages of notes. Inexplicably, a tear runs down Oli’s cheek, and she hastily wipes it away. This feels like the ultimate betrayal, like she is breaking an unspoken code, but she also feels an intense connection. Maybe Isabelle sat in this room, on this very couch, with Dean sleeping down the hall, writing in these books.
Flipping to the start of the notes pages, Oli skims over Isabelle’s words. There are shorthand references to cases. A few names are familiar from old news stories, but most have no context, just pages of half thoughts. Isabelle has a tendency to summarise each page with a series of questions: Link between tram and Willis? Is the script relevant to the doctor appointment? Gun licence in 1992. Son lives on a farm. Connected?
Oli glances at her watch—she has to leave. She places the diaries on the desk, then returns the box and bags to the cupboard. A frenzied feeling takes over, and she rushes to the bedroom, grabbing a calico shopping bag from the hook on the back of the door and sliding the diaries inside. She wraps the excess material
around the bulk before forcing the bag into her satchel. Heart hammering, she hurries downstairs to pick up the twins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHLORINE STINGS HER EYES, NEEDLES HER PORES AND CLINGS TO her hair. There’s the piercing screech of a whistle followed by splashing, the rumble of cheering. Oli loses track of Amy and Kate in the milieu of sleek black swimming costumes, pale limbs and disturbed water. Most people in the stands are on their feet, whooping and pumping their fists. One father is yelling at such volume, his face such an alarming shade of red, that she worries he might induce a heart attack. The swimmers reach the other end and disappear under the water in tumble turns, reappearing a few metres from the wall. Mouths gulp for air, light bouncing off goggles.
After her strange episode at the house and discovery of the diaries, Oli feels completely off kilter. She rolls her shoulders and feigns interest as she looks down at the pool. Remnants of adrenaline are still circulating in her bloodstream, and her heart rate picks up as she thinks about the pages and pages of Isabelle’s diaries waiting for her to devour.
Her phone beeps. The audio file Cooper sent when they arrived at the pool finally loads. He sent the link with no message, just a password. He’s obviously still pissed. Oli eases in her earbuds, and presses the play icon, her deep voice merging with the steady hum of the carnival.
She listens for a few minutes. It sounds good. Really good. It builds well, and she’s delivered a nice balance of emotion and fact. The way Cooper has edited the old news grabs around her narration is masterful. Their back-and-forth format sings, and there’s an undeniable chemistry. It feels original but familiar, his gentle questions leaving plenty of room for her husky answers. The recording only goes for twenty-eight minutes; the other episodes will probably be longer, but Oli can already tell that people will like it. The strangeness of that morning on Paradise Street is conveyed perfectly.
For the first time, Oli wonders what will happen if it really takes off—what it will mean for her status at the office. Uncharacteristic spite churns in her gut: TJ might not be so quick to assume she’ll follow him off a cliff. She thinks back to what he said in the car park. He must have sussed out that Dawn is on the nose with the exec, and now he’s angling for her editor-in-chief role. It makes sense, and if Oli’s honest he would be a good candidate. But she doesn’t want to report to TJ. On the other hand, maybe he was testing her loyalty and reporting back to Joosten—checking to see if she’d throw Dawn under the bus. Or maybe she’s being completely paranoid.