‘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.
‘Goodnight, baby man,’ I say, kissing him on the forehead.
He zooms off, still making little electronic sounds as he bounces against the walls.
I grab a beer and sink onto the couch, letting thoughts whirl around my head as I half watch the cricket. Nothing is adding up. By all accounts, Rose was in good spirits last night. The opening night of her school production was a huge hit. It does appear that the aura of mystery she’d carried in high school had extended into adulthood. ‘She kept to herself’ along with ‘such a beautiful girl’ are common themes in the commentary that we and the scrappy bunch of uniforms we’ve managed to secure so far have gathered from our initial interviews. No one we spoke to knows anything about a boyfriend or a lover, but we haven’t made contact with many people yet.
I keep playing the scene with the Ryans over in my mind. There was such a stiffness to their grief. Felix is right—it’s odd.
I’ve uncovered an assault charge against Timothy Ryan: he allegedly punched another guy in a pub brawl about six months ago but the charge was dropped before it ever went to trial. Apparently the victim was his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. As a result, Timothy has become the main focus of our investigation. I have some uniforms working through his personal finances and phone records, and we’re trying to confirm his alibi.
In the end, Felix went with Marcus to identify Rosalind’s body a few hours after we spoke to the Ryans. George wasn’t up to it. Marcus didn’t say much, but gasped when the sheet was pulled back to reveal his dead sister’s face. He nodded quickly and said, ‘Yes, that’s her. Oh my god.’
Nothing is cut and dried at this stage. I remind myself that working a case is a marathon, not a sprint, as Jonesy is fond of telling us. Even though he makes it clear he would prefer more sprints.
I flick a quick text to Felix. Meet me at RR’s house tomorrow. 9:30? We can go through it after the forensic guys are done. Then we can do autopsy and get background done before the briefing?
My phone buzzes almost immediately. Roger that boss. Very romantic. Dream sweet x
I knock back the last of my beer. Shrill giggles echo up the hallway from the bathroom. Ben thinks brushing his teeth is hilarious. He is becoming such a little boy now. So confident and so curious. He no longer fits in my arms properly and I’m finding it harder and harder to carry him. I think about him having a sibling; another little Ben. I can see his baby photos on the bookshelf from where I am sitting. I remember breathing in his scent just after he was born, not quite believing that he was mine.
Scott comes back down the hall and I get up to fetch another beer. He pours himself a bourbon and joins me on the couch. He pulls my foot into his lap and strokes it absently. I glance at his profile but he seems intent on the cricket. He needs a shave; his face is dark with patchy bristles. I wonder if he will bring up getting married again. His proposal from a couple of weeks ago still hangs in the air between us. I wish it would disappear. I finish my beer and place the bottle on the coffee table. My eyes glaze as I watch the action on the screen. I slip into sleep for a few moments and wake with a jolt, slightly disoriented.
‘You okay?’ Scott says.
‘Yeah. Just knackered. I better go to bed. We’ve got a massive day tomorrow.’
‘It’s about to get crazy for you, isn’t it?’
I stand up and stretch out my back. It clicks uncomfortably. I picture Rosalind face down in the water. Her bruised neck and vacant stare.
I remember the blood swirling around my toes in the shower this morning.
Felix grabbing my thigh in the car.
The burning pain in George Ryan’s eyes.
Scott is still looking at me, his face filled with concern. He runs his finger along the rim of his glass, waiting for me to answer.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It sure is.’
Chapter Six
Sunday, 13 December, 9.24 am
Rosalind’s house is one of eight modest cottages positioned on a nondescript stretch of the Ross Highway. Smithson’s public hospital is about five hundred metres up the road and there’s a 7-Eleven opposite her driveway. A vacant block of land two doors along on the right has an old mattress propped against the fence and weeds almost a metre high. The dwellings are made from an off-white fibro with peeling cream window frames. A few plants are growing half-heartedly in the common garden beds between the driveways but there are more weeds than anything else. The patchy-looking sawdust scattered in between them looks about a decade old.
Rosalind’s place is the neatest. There is a new doormat on her porch and an array of pots around the front entrance with a few flowers reaching out of them. A pair of thongs is set neatly to one side of the door. A birdbath hangs from the brick window that cuts into the porch and it shifts slightly in the breeze. The drone of the highway traffic rings in our ears as we greet Jimmy and sign the crime scene register.
‘Jeez, I guess teaching salaries are even worse than ours,’ Felix says, slipping booties over his shoes and snapping on latex gloves.
‘They probably are,’ I say, pulling my gloves and booties on, ‘but considering her family home, this is pretty strange.’
‘Maybe George is the kind of father who thinks you need to make your own way,’ Felix suggests.
‘Maybe. But he’s obviously happy to let Timothy stay with him.’
Felix shrugs. ‘True.’
The forensic team deemed Rosalind’s house clear yesterday and have taken a few samples to run through the lab. They don’t think she returned here after the play, which makes sense given that she was attacked in such close proximity to the school. I’m curious to see her house, to get a glimpse into her private world.