by Sarah Bailey
I think about the marks on Rosalind’s neck and can’t imagine a woman doing that. Careful, I warn myself. I know better than most what women are capable of if pushed hard enough. Maybe there are two people working together—but then why kill her? What would they gain from her death? And how would the woman know about the gate in the fence to the backyard? Back in high school I was out here all the time, climbing trees or having picnics. Mum and I even camped in the reserve one night, but I’ve barely been out here in years. Placing my hands on my hips I look up at the sky. I stare into the blue, trying to let the pieces fall into place. Nothing. None of it makes sense.
I look back at the house. The gate is open and I can see Scott and Ben through the window. Scott is laughing. He kisses Ben on the top of his head. I look along the line of the fence. I remember Jacob pushing me against the slats and kissing me with Dad just metres away inside. I felt so safe out here in the dark, Jacob’s strong arms wrapped around me.
I imagine the woman who took Ben standing out here last night listening to him cry, hearing us come outside to find him. Disappearing into thin air. I spin around, half expecting to see a face quickly slipping back behind a tree. I scan the bush. The sun is breaking through the far side. A butterfly slowly beats its way from one shrub to the next. Goosebumps break out across my arms and legs. Our house suddenly seems awfully exposed and vulnerable alongside this strip of peaceful, untouched nature.
Chapter Forty-six
Tuesday, 22 December, 9.25 am
‘Woodstock, I don’t remember calling you,’ says Jonesy.
‘I know, sir, but I wanted to be here. I wanted to know if you had turned up anything yet.’
‘Would have called you if we did.’ Jonesy is gruff but there is an undertone of kindness. ‘How’s Ben?’
Eyes make holes as they bore into me. The soft murmur of conversation niggles like a stray itch. ‘He’s fine. He’s young, he doesn’t really know anything was wrong yesterday. He’s very trusting. Too trusting, obviously.’
‘Well thank goodness he turned up. But, Woodstock, you know this changes things.’
Felix walks in from the back office and my pulse skips a beat. Jonesy is still talking and I focus on his mouth but I can see the top of Felix’s head bobbing behind him and then disappear as he sits down at his desk.
‘Woodstock?’
‘Yes, I know. But I have to finish this case, sir. It’s personal now.’
‘That’s the issue though: it’s—’
‘Personal in a good way. I need to do this. Work out who took Ben. Jonesy, please.’
‘Okay. Okay, look. Lay low for a bit. Don’t touch anything to do with your boy, let Matthews handle that. You focus on the teacher. We need to keep that moving and we don’t know for certain that they are linked, anyway.’ He beckons me closer, indicating that he wants to talk into my ear. ‘I’m getting calls from the press on the hour. Your mate Candy Cane is a pain in the arse. Worse than my wife wanting the deck waterproofed before Christmas.’
‘You know she’s not my mate.’
‘Doesn’t matter. She’s right. Everyone wants this thing done by Christmas. It’s just the way it is.’
‘We’re doing what we can, sir. We’ve got more interviews today. More things to look into. We’ll crack it.’
He pulls away and does a signature slap and clasp on my upper arm. ‘Right, well, off you go then.’
Felix gives me a cautious smile as I walk over to my desk. ‘How’s Ben?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Scott cool with you being here today?’
‘Yes.’
Felix nods and keeps typing. I feel sick. Something is not right with us: he won’t look at me. ‘Scott is going to stay with him today in the house.’
‘Good idea. He should be with you guys today. Feel safe.’
‘So you don’t think I should be here either?’
Finally, his eyes rest on me. ‘I didn’t say that, Gem. I’m sure he’s absolutely fine. I just wasn’t sure you would want to be here.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘That’s cool. I get it.’ He finishes scribbling something in his notebook and then stretches his legs. I can see the toe of his boot peek out from under his desk.
‘God, I’m tired.’ He rubs his eyes and the creases take a moment to settle. ‘Okay, so, we’ve got twenty minutes before check-in. I pushed it out because everyone was up so late last night. So if you like I can catch you up on what I found out yesterday.’
My teeth grind together. No, I don’t want to get caught up. I want to kiss the soft skin under his eyes, his eyelids. ‘Sure,’ I tell him.
‘Okay, so I’ve been tracking Rosalind’s voice messages and yesterday someone left a message about a rental enquiry that she made a couple of weeks ago. So I called them back—it was a Brisbane number. Anyway, she’d applied for a rental up there, starting the twenty-fifth of January. Offered them twenty dollars a week more than the asking price.’
‘She was planning to move to Brisbane?’
‘She was.’
I think about this for a minute. ‘What about a job?’
‘I thought about that too, so I dug around a bit and it seems that a Rosalind Ryan successfully applied to start teaching English and drama at Waterford High. In Brisbane. She used an old Hotmail account that I’ve got the guys looking into.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Exactly. It turns out she had made enquiries about putting her house on the market. That was the fancy car her neighbour saw in the driveway a few weeks back. A real estate agent from Gowran drove over to evaluate the house. Rosalind wasn’t planning to teach at Smithson next year.’
My heart begins to thump into gear. ‘Had she resigned? Does Nicholson know? Her family? I can’t believe that no one has mentioned it. Wouldn’t the school in Brisbane have done reference checks?’
‘I don’t know yet. I was about to call Nicholson last night when you called about Ben. Obviously we need to pay the Ryans a visit too.’
‘Well, we should go see Nicholson straight after check-in.’
Felix flashes me a grin and, just like that, everything is normal again.
‘Great minds, Gem. I just called the receptionist to tell her I’m coming.’
Chapter Forty-seven
Tuesday, 22 December, 11.37 am
It turns out that John Nicholson isn’t at the school. The harried receptionist looks at us blankly and then taps her hand to her head as if to tell herself off. ‘Oh dear! Yes, you rang, sorry. He was here when you called but I forgot that he was taking a half-day today. We break up tomorrow, you see, and there’re hardly any classes today anyway. I think he’s doing some work from home. It’s all been rather strange, really—you know, since … I did mention you might come, but he’s been quite vague lately.’
‘So he’s at home then?’
‘Well, yes. I think so.’
‘Thanks. We’ll have his address, please.’
‘It’s alright,’ I tell them. ‘I know it.’
Felix is all business as he strides back to the car. I trot along behind him feeling like an annoying child. I can’t read him. My head is fuzzy. Not one thought seems able to stick, and my heart aches for Ben. I flick Scott a quick message to check on him.
‘Do you know the way?’ Felix asks.
‘Yep. His house isn’t too far from mine.’
We drive in silence for a few moments.
I almost explode before I blurt out, ‘I want to see you. Spend time with you. I just want you to be with me.’ I sound like a little girl and I hate it.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road but I see him swallow heavily. He breathes out slowly, making a whistling noise with his teeth. ‘I want that too, Gem—I just … I don’t know. Like I said, my head is such a mess. It’s been different between us lately. You’re not working with me properly on this Ryan case. And what happened with Ben, meeting Scott, it … it was so real. I think it just fucked with me even more.�
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Panic returns hard and fast. I reach out my hand and place it on his leg. ‘Please, Scott—please. You know I want you. Especially after yesterday. I need you.’
He gives a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Gem, you just called me Scott.’ He slams his fist lightly on the wheel. ‘God, this whole thing is such a mess.’
‘No, I didn’t. Did I?’ I put my head in my hands and for a moment I think I might cry but I’m too tired, too empty. I just want it all to go away. All of it except for Felix.
Houses flash by. An elderly man wearing a baseball cap is walking an overweight dog. They shuffle along in the heat, painfully slow, the man’s legs like the pale trunks of saplings.
Felix tugs at his collar as if it’s choking him. ‘Okay. Look. I want to see you too. I do. I miss you. Holding you. But won’t you need to be home? You know, with all that’s happened with Ben?’
My heartbeat slows and my eyes sharpen. He still wants me. I unravel my balled hands, placing them calmly on my thighs as the colour returns to them. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to pry Scott off him anyway. I’ll be able to see you, don’t worry.’
‘Well, here we are.’ His fingers suddenly wrap around my hand. His voice is gruff, his accent thick. ‘Maybe we can meet Thursday night?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, squeezing his hand back. We are in front of Nicholson’s neat brick veneer. The house looks like it is sitting down; ‘squat’, my father would say. There are some flowers across the front and a large wattle tree to the side. The garden looks loved. The lawn is neatly mown and is an impressive lush green. A lazy sprinkler jerks one way before snapping back to its original position, jetting out a stream of droplets onto the grass. The front door is open and the screen door is propped open too. A narrow hallway becomes a dark square inside the house; I think I can see the corner of a picture frame on the wall.
Felix removes his hand from mine and turns off the ignition just as John Nicholson steps out the door. He is so tall that his head, encased in a retro-looking terry-towelling hat, almost touches the archway. He squints into the sun, secateurs in hand, and then proceeds over to the far side of the garden. He starts to prune the overhanging strands of ivy, chopping at them stiffly.
‘C’mon, let’s get this done.’
Nodding, I slide out of the car. The heat hits the back of my throat and my forehead instantly buds with perspiration. My feet are fire in my dark shoes. The buildings, the roads, the whole town sweats, still chanting at us: Who killed her? Who killed her? The question sits at eye level, demanding an answer as it hovers in the lank, sticky air.
‘Mr Nicholson!’ Felix calls out.
He turns slowly, arms still outstretched. If he is surprised to see us, it doesn’t show.
‘Yes, hello.’ He takes a few steps towards us and then seems to realise that he is holding a fistful of branches. ‘Ah, look. Let me get rid of this and then we can talk.’
He goes to the side of the house and tosses the branches out of sight, then heads to the open front door, gesturing for us to follow him. Felix and I look at each other and he holds his arm out so that I go first. The ceilings are low; it reminds me of our place. There are portrait-style photos along the length of the hall, most of them featuring a handsome-looking woman with rosy cheeks and cropped, no-nonsense blonde hair. Nicholson is in some of the shots too, smiling over her shoulder. The woman wears an endless rotation of pastel shirts.
‘This way, this way,’ he says.
I follow him down the hallway into a bright white kitchen. It’s surprisingly modern; light bounces off the stainless-steel appliances.
‘Please, go outside, it’s nicer out there. I’ll just get us some water. It’s still so hot, isn’t it?’
I step out into a small square courtyard. A wrought-iron table setting is on the lawn. A large shade cloth casts an inviting-looking shadow across the yard. A row of standard roses follows the line of the fence and then merges into wilder, leafier vines that weave and dance across the palings, disappearing behind a tree heavy with lemons in the far corner.
‘The roses look stunning in the spring. It’s a wall of colour. Keeping them going through the summer is hard work though. Especially this summer.’
‘It’s like being back at home.’ Felix is staring wide-eyed at the garden.
‘My wife adored gardening. Her family was English and she fancied it was in her blood. She was out here all the time. In the end it was the only thing that made her smile.’
He sets a jug of ice water on the table with some glasses. His arm shakes as he places them down. I take a seat on the chair.
‘She was ill?’
He smiles at me. ‘Oh yes. Very ill. Cancer and heart problems. She was an amazing woman, my Jessica. Very solid. Dying annoyed her very much, she hated being weak and needy. I keep the garden alive for her. She’d be furious with me if I let it go. But I’ve come to quite enjoy it myself. I find it meditative.’
‘Mr Nicholson …’
‘I know. You need to talk to me about Rosalind. I’m not stalling. I don’t have guests too often so I suppose I’m babbling a bit.’
‘How are you holding up?’
He sends me an appreciative glance. ‘Oh well, not too bad. It has been a pretty difficult time. I feel such a responsibility for the students. And the teachers. It’s very hard to know what to do and what to say to everyone. And I miss her.’ He holds his hands out with his palms up. He looks lost. ‘It’s a very difficult thing. Impossible really.’
We nod and sit in silence for a moment. I can hear the hum of bees in the air.
‘People are saying you were in a relationship with Ms Ryan.’
Felix tips his head at me, surprised. I’m surprised too; I had intended to work up to the possibility that Nicholson was having an affair with Rosalind, but it suddenly seemed better to shoot the words out, to fire them like bullets and see what they hit.
Nicholson takes a large gulp of water and a deep breath. He looks back and forth between the two of us with a pained expression.
‘Ah, yes. Well. I suppose I was.’
I try to keep my face still but feel my eyes bug open. An odd little trickle of relief courses through me as I wonder whether this means Rodney is off the hook. ‘You were in a relationship with her?’
He stares past us towards the lemon tree. ‘Of sorts.’
Felix inhales sharply. A butterfly veers close to my head and I think I can hear the beat of its tiny wings.
Felix says, ‘Were you having a sexual relationship with Ms Ryan? I need you to answer.’
Nicholson looks at Felix with something between pity and sadness. ‘No, no. The very opposite, I suppose you’d say.’
I lean forward, forcing his eyes to meet mine. ‘Mr Nicholson, you need to be more specific. This is a murder investigation, so it is very important for us to understand any relationship Ms Ryan was in.’
He holds my gaze. ‘She was my daughter.’
A strange sense of calm washes over me.
Felix avoids my eyes. ‘Your daughter!’ he says.
I feel like I am in a tunnel. Wind kisses at my face and as I look at Nicholson suddenly I can see it: the same curve of the cheekbones, the similar slant of his eyes. ‘Your daughter,’ I repeat dumbly.
‘Yes.’ He sighs, clearly exhausted at birthing this revelation. His hand wobbles as he drinks some more water. ‘I’m not sure exactly how it’s relevant, but what do you need to know?’
‘Tell us everything.’
Birds twitter from behind their leafy curtain as John Nicholson tells us the story of how he came to be Rosalind Ryan’s father.
‘I was married to Jessica, you see. Probably for almost three years when I met Olivia Ryan. Jessica and I were happy, but—and this is hard to explain—she didn’t need me. She loved me, I knew that, but she was very self-sufficient, very strong. And then Olivia came along and all she did was need. She had her three sons already, but she was miserable. She wasn’t happy in her marriage, she had a t
endency to intense melancholy. In hindsight it’s obvious that she was deeply troubled, but at the time I admit I was simply captivated.’
‘Where did you meet?’
He chuckles softly, remembering. ‘At the library, actually. She was there with her boys, who were giving her a hard time. I noticed her struggling and offered to help her carry the books to the car. We put the children in the car and then she started crying. I comforted her as best I could and instantly I knew I wanted to see her again.’ He toyed with his watch, unclipping it and then snapping it gently back on. ‘I’ve never felt an attraction so strong.’ Nicholson looks at me intensely again and I have to look away. I avoid looking at Felix, worrying that our own attraction will betray us.
‘And this was when?’ I ask quietly.
‘About a year before Rosalind was born.’
‘Okay, then what happened?’
He shrugs simply. ‘We started seeing each other. She would call me at the school or on Sunday morning, when I told her Jessie would be at church, and we would arrange to meet. We’d go on drives, meet for coffee in Gowran. She had help with the boys and Jessica and I had no children so it was remarkably easy to find time to meet. She was unwell though. She hid it quite well, but even so, I knew. I suppose I didn’t really want to admit how unwell she might be in case it meant I had to stop seeing her.’
‘And then she got pregnant?’ Felix asks.
His eyes become cloudy. ‘Yes. That was not part of the plan, but she told me a few months later that she was pregnant. I asked if the child was mine and she said she thought so but she wasn’t sure. We never spoke much about her marriage but she was fascinated with mine. I knew that she felt trapped, that George Ryan was a formidable man and that she loved the children, but the details of how they were when they were alone together remain a mystery to me. I don’t know if they were still lovers or not. She was vague on the topic. Olivia never spoke about things she didn’t want to.’ He clears his throat and breaks into a cough, tapping his fist against his chest. ‘I assumed the child was mine and I am ashamed to say that I panicked. I didn’t want to hurt Jessie, or lose her, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Olivia seemed terrified at the idea of having another baby but seemed sure that staying with George was for the best. She wasn’t exactly a maternal woman but she had a fierce love for her sons.’