by Sarah Bailey
Six eyes look at me blankly.
‘Please sit,’ insists Marcus, coming up behind me and ushering us into chairs. ‘This is my father, George Ryan. And my brothers, Bryce and Timothy.’
If Bryce and Timothy recognise me, they don’t show it. Steam curls from the mug that George Ryan is holding. He is the largest of them all: broad across the shoulders and overweight, but in a way that suits his frame. He is very pale. His hands shake as he steadies the tea on his knee. His younger sons flank him. While Marcus looks like he has stepped straight out of the early twentieth century, Timothy and Bryce are quintessential modern Aussies. They are both deeply tanned with loose-necked t-shirts, surf-brand shorts and wiry hair like ivy woven up their muscled legs. Straight white teeth underneath denim blue eyes complete the look.
I look at each of them in turn before speaking to George Ryan. ‘Unfortunately, we have some very bad news.’ I take a huge breath and close my eyes briefly before saying, ‘Your daughter Rosalind was found dead this morning. We believe she was murdered.’
A ball connects with a bat on the radio and it sounds like a gunshot. The crowd oohs and aahs, and I watch carefully as the shock hits the Ryans square in the face.
Marcus looks desperately at his father and brothers and then back to me. ‘What?’
George Ryan shifts into an upright position, clearly in pain. ‘Rosalind is dead?’
Timothy and Bryce are gobsmacked bookends staring dumbly into their laps.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’
Marcus scurries to the kitchen and snaps the radio off. The silence rushes through the house and I find myself desperate to say something. ‘We believe Rosalind died late last night or very early this morning. After the play at the school.’
‘What happened?’ George Ryan’s booming voice is glorious. Syrupy and thick, it catches in his throat.
Felix leans forward. ‘We don’t know yet, Mr Ryan, but it is a homicide investigation. Your daughter was attacked. We’re terribly sorry, but can we please ask you all a few questions? We really need to know as much as we can. It will help us to find out who did this.’
George Ryan lets out a deep sigh, straight from his soul. He grimaces as he pulls himself up to place his mug on the coffee table. I imagine going from the ordeal of surgery to being told that your only daughter has been murdered.
‘My little girl is dead?’ His face wobbles wildly and his eyes seem unable to focus. He looks to me for confirmation. To check that the awful thing I just said is true.
I nod quickly, considering his reaction.
He pushes his fingers against his eyes and holds them there for a moment. ‘Ask us anything,’ he says to the floor.
‘I’ll get some water,’ says Marcus, jumping up from his chair again. His eyes are bright with tears and his lip quivers.
‘We’re fine, honestly.’
‘No, no, come on, please,’ he insists. ‘It’s so hot.’
I sense Marcus needs to have a task. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Get me a water too, please, Mark,’ says George softly, as Marcus walks out of the room. ‘And bring me my pills.’
Felix is firm. ‘We know this is a huge shock. Maybe let’s start with when you all last saw Rosalind. Timothy, what about you?’
Timothy’s eyes are huge. He stares at the mute cricket game on TV, his jaw shaking. ‘Well, I went to the school play last night. It was a really big deal for Rose.’ His eyes jump from me, to Felix, to the floor. ‘I didn’t get the chance to speak with her though.’
Bryce’s head snaps up. ‘I didn’t know you went.’
George, too, looks at Timothy in surprise.
Timothy shrugs. ‘I hadn’t seen her since Dad’s birthday.’ He turns to me and wipes some tears from his eyes. ‘Um, Dad’s birthday night got a bit intense. I acted like a dick and Rose was upset. I knew the play was important to her so I wanted to go.’
‘All she talked about was that play,’ says a bewildered-looking Marcus, returning with a silver tray on which are several glasses of water. ‘She was very excited about it when I last spoke to her.’ He hands me a glass. He speaks so softly I have to strain forward to hear him. ‘I live in Sydney. I’m home early for Christmas because of Dad’s operation yesterday. Rose and I usually speak once a fortnight but I’ve only seen her once since Dad’s birthday in October.’
I glance at Timothy in time to see an almost imperceptible twitch of his eyes.
I turn back to Marcus. ‘Did you go to the play too? Seeing as you were here.’
‘I only just arrived this morning.’ His voice breaks and he looks away. He wipes his face with his hand. ‘I was planning to go next weekend.’
I shift my gaze along the couch. ‘What about you, Bryce? When did you last see Rosalind?’
‘At Dad’s birthday dinner, like the others. So October the seventeenth.’ His eyes bore into mine. ‘I haven’t even spoken to her since. We don’t really talk much. That sounds awful now.’ He gulps some water. ‘But it’s true. To be honest, I’m not quite sure this has sunk in yet. What did she do?’
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘Why did someone attack her? Was she fighting with someone?’
‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
Bryce is sheepish, clearly regretting his comment. ‘I don’t know. I guess I just figured she did something that made someone lose it.’
‘Did she do that a lot? Get people offside?’ Felix probes.
Timothy stares at the floor. Bryce opens his mouth and then closes it. Felix arches his eyebrow at him.
‘Well, she can be difficult,’ says Bryce feebly.
‘Difficult?’ I say, ignoring his use of the present tense.
Bryce looks to Timothy for support. ‘Yeah. Well, she always speaks her mind, which I guess some people find challenging.’
‘Had she mentioned any specific run-ins with anyone lately? Arguments?’
Now Bryce is the one to fix his eyes on the floor. Timothy shakes his head slowly.
George Ryan clears his throat, cutting off our conversation. ‘I just can’t imagine how this could have happened. It doesn’t make any sense. No one would want to hurt Rose.’
‘It’s very hard to understand something like this, Mr Ryan,’ I tell him. ‘It may never really make sense, but we need you all to help us try to piece things together.’ I place my glass down and ask, ‘When did you last see her?’
‘At my birthday as well. I’ve been away a lot since then, you see, trying to get everything ready before … well.’ He trails off and then seems to remember he was talking. ‘She did call me on Thursday to wish me well for my operation. We talked about the play. She was very proud of it, you know.’ He drops his head and shudders through a hopeless, silent sob.
‘It was based on Romeo and Juliet, is that right?’ I’d looked it up on the school website before we came here.
He lifts his head and focuses watery eyes on me. ‘Yes, yes, she loved all that stuff. She really battled to get it happening. The school didn’t want to put on a play this year. There were issues with funding or something, so it got delayed several times. I think she was quite frustrated about that. She was very passionate about it and kept pushing the principal to endorse it. That’s just Rosalind all over: determined.’
Bryce, Marcus and Timothy don’t move. George Ryan pops some pills out of the packet that Marcus gave him, dropping them on his lap before washing them down with the cold water.
He continues, ‘And all those kids in year twelve got behind her, agreeing to be in the play even though school had finished. They must have really liked her.’
I nod, reminded that we need to talk to all of these students as soon as possible. I wonder what will happen with the play now.
The sun has moved across the floor onto my foot. I pull it away into shadow. ‘So, Marcus, you were in Sydney last night. Timothy, you went to the play. Bryce, what about you?’ I ask.
‘I was here. I flew into Gowran yest
erday afternoon. I saw Dad briefly at the hospital, but he was pretty groggy so I didn’t stay long.’ He seems out of breath.
‘What about after dinner?’ I press.
‘I had a work call and then had some dinner here. I spoke to my girlfriend at some point. She lives between Smithson and Sydney and was already here at a place she rents out, but she wasn’t feeling well, so she cancelled our plans just after I landed.’
Felix turns to Timothy. ‘Do anything after the play?’
‘Just came straight here. Bryce was here. In his room.’
Bryce nods in confirmation.
Something is nagging at me. Timothy and Bryce’s ‘Dear Diary’ recall is all a bit too neat. But as I study them I see real sorrow in their eyes. I change gears. ‘Did Rose have a boyfriend?’
‘A boyfriend? No, no. No boyfriend,’ says George.
‘Okay, well, what about earlier this year? Was she seeing anyone?’
‘No. Nothing like that. She had a few boyfriends in school and uni but nothing serious. She was very into her teaching. Very dedicated. Not running around like half the silly girls are these days.’
Timothy and Bryce exchange loaded looks from opposite ends of the couch. Marcus gets to his feet and hovers near my elbow for a few moments. His anxiety is palpable. He clutches at his hands and then clears his throat twice. ‘Do you want food? I think we have biscuits or maybe some cake.’
‘How often are you here?’ Felix asks him abruptly.
He stammers, ‘It—it depends. Probably three times a year.’
‘And you?’ Felix says to Bryce.
‘Same. Maybe a bit more. My girlfriend is here almost every second week at the moment so I come with her sometimes.’
‘And you live in Paxton?’ Felix says to Timothy.
‘I did. I own a place there. Well, half a place, according to the lawyers. I’m in the middle of a divorce so I’m staying here at the moment. I’ll get a new place in the new year.’
I catch Timothy’s gaze and feel the hairs prickling up my legs.
Felix turns to George. ‘Mr Ryan, I have to ask, does Rose have other family? Her mother?’
‘My wife Olivia is dead. She died a few days after giving birth to Rose. From a haemorrhage.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been incredibly difficult.’
‘Yes. It was a shock, just like this. And I had small children to worry about then. Truth be told, Olivia was not a well woman before she died. Marcus was always a great help. Especially once Olivia was gone.’
Outside a bird swoops suddenly towards the pool and flits across the surface. Inside, the only sound I can hear is the soft whir of the air-conditioner.
‘Is there anything you can think of that might be worth telling us about?’ I ask. ‘Something she said? Even something that seems like a little thing?’
Bryce and Timothy exchange looks again but shake their heads. Marcus swallows noisily. George Ryan just stares at his hands.
‘Well, thank you. We’ll leave you alone.’ I stand up and gesture at Felix to do the same. ‘We truly are so sorry. Look after yourselves. You’ve had a terrible shock. We’ll do everything we can to work out what happened to Rosalind.’
They all stand except for George. His eyes fix on me, years and sorrow etched into his face. ‘Yes. Please find out who did this to my daughter.’
Marcus walks us to the front door.
‘We’ll be working through her phone records, her house, what happened on the night she died—everything.’ Felix shakes Marcus’s hand. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’
Marcus holds his hand for a few beats.
Felix adds, ‘One of you will need to come down to the station today to complete the identification. Your father may not be up to it?’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Well, I’ll speak to Dad and see whether he wants to … or perhaps I’ll just go myself. He’s probably not really well enough. He’s supposed to have strict rest until Monday.’
‘How about I call you in an hour? You can let me know then,’ says Felix.
‘Yes. Alright.’ His face crumples before he pulls it back into line. ‘God,’ he says, almost to himself.
‘Marcus, make sure you tell any other family and friends sooner rather than later,’ I say gently. ‘This will be all over the news tonight.’
He nods, looking lost.
We step outside into the heat.
Felix pauses and turns to face Marcus again. ‘Did Rosalind keep living here after she finished school?’
Marcus stands in the doorway. I can see glimmers of his father starting to creep onto his face. ‘Ah, no, she wanted to do the student thing. Plus, I think being the only girl … perhaps it was a bit hard for her. I think she felt a bit lost living here. She never really found her place. Anyway, she moved to Sydney, did arts at uni and travelled a bit—you know, normal stuff.’ He pauses and we wait, both thinking he’s going to say something else, but he just stands there blinking at us.
After a few moments Felix smiles sadly. ‘Well, take care, okay? Like I said, I’ll give you a call in a little while. But you call us anytime you need. Or if you think of anything.’
Marcus moves his mouth into a tight smile and closes the door gently, his footsteps echoing as he walks down the hall.
‘Wow,’ Felix whistles, as we make our way down the driveway.
‘Wow what?’
‘I don’t know, but they’re something.’
We get back into the car. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Well, I don’t know where to start.’ Felix fastens his seatbelt. ‘I mean, we’ve obviously dropped a bombshell on them, but they seem so weird. No wonder she got out of there.’
‘Define “weird”.’
‘That.’ Felix makes his eyes bug out and I laugh.
‘Timothy looked at me funny,’ I say. ‘Like defensive or something.’
‘He had a weird vibe. They all did. Especially the younger two.’
‘Well, they were in shock.’
Felix dismisses the Ryans’ shock with a wave of his hand. ‘They were strange. Like cardboard cut-outs. And Marcus would have to be the most awkward person on the planet. I want to run background on all of them and get alibis confirmed asap.’
‘Of course,’ I agree. ‘I just don’t want to jump to conclusions. Getting news like that throws you. You’re allowed to act a bit weird.’ I start the car and pull away from the kerb.
‘When can I see you?’ Felix says.
‘Huh?’
‘When can I see you? You know, properly?’ His voice has a desperate edge and my body stirs in response.
I keep my eyes on the road. I think about this morning in the shower. It feels like it happened a long time ago. I blink the scene away. I wonder if I’m still bleeding. I can hear his breathing next to me. I guide us back towards the station. Felix grabs my thigh hard, digging his fingers in around its curve.
‘Monday night,’ I say, staring straight ahead, my heart beating so loudly I think he can probably hear it.
Chapter Five
Saturday, 12 December, 7.03 pm
Scott looks up from whatever he is frying on the stovetop as I walk in. He takes in my drawn face and what he calls my ‘police eyes’; the intensity that is reserved specifically for tracking down evil.
‘Bad day?’ he says evenly.
I look up to answer him but am distracted by aerial shots of the crime scene at Sonny Lake on the TV. I recognise the top of my head. The footage is interspersed with a recent head shot and a photo of Rosalind dressed in white and smiling prettily at our debutante ball. She looked like an angel that night. I hated my deb dress. I remember Jacob clumsily giving me a corsage on our front porch as Dad self-consciously snapped photos. I spent the entire evening trying to adjust the straps on my dress. In every photo from that night I have a slightly pained look on my face. My foundation was about two shades too dark and my lipstick too brown. If that was my first foray into womanhood
I would say I failed spectacularly.
Ben careers around the doorway from the hall and catapults into my legs, wrapping his arms around me. ‘Mummy!’
‘Hey, sweetheart.’
‘Granddad and I flew a kite!’
‘That’s great, darling.’
‘You’re on this case?’ Scott tips his head towards the TV.
‘Yep.’
‘On the case, on the case,’ Ben babbles and I shoot a look at Scott.
‘Hey, buddy, why don’t you go get those stickers Granddad gave you to show Mum?’
I watch Ben’s dark curls bob up and down as he runs off along the hallway to fetch his latest favourite thing.
‘Did you know her? She went to Smithson, right?’
‘Yep. She was in my class. I knew her.’
‘Jesus.’ Scott flips off the gas and starts to spoon stir-fry onto two waiting plates and into Ben’s Peter Rabbit bowl.
Ben explodes back into the room, clutching his new stickers.
‘Look! Look, Mum. See? I have Ninja Turtles! All of them!’
‘Wow, darling, that’s great. Let’s have dinner first and then you can show me properly.’ I guide him to the table.
We settle in front of the steaming food. Ben eats noisily, making little beeping sounds every time he swallows a carrot. Scott looks down as he eats steadily, one forkful after another. Everything about Scott is precise. If he says he is going to be somewhere at a certain time, he is there. Our bills are paid on time. Our bins are always put out the night before. I often think he would make a good forensic analyst instead of a concreter. He would be at ease with all the order required. Scott prefers things to be linear; to happen in the right order, one after another. Crawl, walk, run. Our being parents without being married drives him crazy.
Ben chatters away about the kite and Ninja Turtles. Scott clears our plates and tidies the kitchen as I am mistaken for monkey bars by our son. I can hear the newsreader recapping the details of Rosalind’s death, describing it as the ‘Smithson school teacher killing’.
‘Right, kiddo, bedtime for you.’ Scott tickles Ben on the belly. He squeals with delight.