‘Not sure. Do you think I should?’
Felix looks at me. He toys with a teaspoon, flipping it over and over between his fingers. ‘Well, probably. It’s either someone having a pretty weird joke or it’s from the person who murdered Rosalind Ryan. Either way you should get it looked at.’
‘I know.’ I am angry. This type of thing is such a distraction. I just want to get on with the investigation. If we tell Jonesy about this, then suddenly it’s all about me. He might even pull me off the case.
‘And this person knows where you live, Gem.’
‘Obviously,’ I say, and I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ‘But then, this is Smithson. Lots of people know where I live. Or can easily find out.’
‘Well, I think you should tell him. I’m worried about you.’
I sigh heavily. ‘Okay, how about I get one of the uniforms to look into it? Check out the florists and that kind of thing.’
‘And Jonesy? You’ll tell him?
‘I will. Just not today, alright? I want to do the check-in and then the other teacher interviews. Maybe some of the kids. We need to keep things moving. Okay?’
‘Sure.’ Felix waves his hand, making it clear he knows it’s not up to him anyway.
I kick off the check-in at precisely 8 am. The uniforms look at Felix and me like baby birds all vying for attention. A short, slightly buck-toothed girl reports that Rosalind joined a gym in July but only went five times since.
‘Pretty normal behaviour then,’ remarks one of the other guys. ‘I basically donate money to my local gym.’
‘Check it out anyway,’ says Felix. ‘Maybe she was getting hassled by someone there and didn’t feel comfortable going anymore.’
‘Her doctor wasn’t very helpful,’ reports a man with a sunglasses tan. ‘She was on pretty standard meds for anxiety and depression. The same stuff that you guys found at her place.’ He looks around earnestly. ‘Apparently it’s all really common.’
‘Keep looking. See whether you can find out if she was seeing other doctors. She might have been doctor shopping. And find out whether she was seeing a shrink.’ I push my hair out of my eyes. ‘Same goes for church. Find out whether she ever went. She might have confided in someone she trusted.’
‘I interviewed an old boyfriend,’ volunteers another. ‘Seems like he’s the only guy she’s ever really gone out with seriously but I think he’s clear. Lives interstate. Reckons he’s bisexual. An actor type. That’s how they met.’
‘What was their relationship like? Did he say why they broke up?’ It seems important to know what Rosalind was like unchecked, what she was like in love.
The uniform blushes lightly. ‘He said that she was fun. Beautiful. Said that going out with her was kind of strange because people were always looking at her. He said they had a good time together but that she had an undercurrent of sadness.’
‘What does that mean?’ Felix looks impatient and I can tell he wants to get going. He finds the station room stifling sometimes. He says it makes his bones itch.
‘I asked him, but I’m not exactly sure. The guy was a bit weird. Very dramatic. He used lots of quotes from plays and movies. He said that Rosalind was a lovely girl but that he thought she felt trapped or something. He reckons she was lonely and that she had a weird relationship with her family.’
I think about Rosalind’s little cottage with the movie posters and the art on its walls, so dramatic compared to the plain reality of her existence, and I swallow past a lump in my throat.
‘Okay, everyone, good. The ex might be worth another chat. See if she ever fought with her brothers or father in front of him. Find out if she felt scared of them. Listen out for any gossip about her relationships with teachers, students, local guys.’ I stand up. ‘We don’t have anything concrete yet so let’s make today a big one. See you all back here later.’
They leave and we’re alone. The quiet that follows their pulsing energy is uncomfortable and obvious.
‘Should we get going too?’ Felix asks.
‘Yeah, just hang on a sec. I’ll meet you at the car.’
Felix walks over to his desk and I go into the female locker room to find Karly, one of the uniforms, still there. ‘Karly.’
‘Detective.’ Her broad face is flushed as she stands up from tying her laces.
‘Karly, I want your help with something.’
‘Of course.’
‘I want you to see if you can help me work out where some flowers were bought from.’
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday, 15 December, 10.07 am
Sam Blackstone can’t believe it.
Trudy Fisher can’t believe it.
Millie Janz can’t believe it.
Neither can Paula Desmond, Troy Shooter or Izzy Mealor.
The teachers have pulled their office chairs into a circle and are sitting together, crying and staring at the floor, as we enter the staffroom. Just like the year twelves yesterday, I think, but less tanned and without the trendy haircuts.
They can’t believe that Rosalind is dead and that she was murdered. They saw her on Friday! It just can’t be true. They all got along well. Rosalind was quiet but friendly. A sweet girl. Sometimes she picked wildflowers and put them in an old jar on the communal table near the kettle to brighten up the staffroom. She didn’t talk much about her family or friends but she always had a smile for everyone.
We begin the individual interviews. The others wait their turn in the boardroom, muffled crying occasionally breaking through the wall.
‘She was so young,’ sobs Millie Janz into her hands. ‘My daughter is only a few years younger than her.’
‘Were you at the play on Friday night?’
Sam Blackstone wasn’t but he had really wanted to go. ‘My girlfriend was singing at a jazz club so I had to be there instead. We would have gone this weekend.’
‘I went,’ Trudy Fisher, the art teacher, tells us. ‘It was a modern masterpiece. Honestly. No private school could have done it better. Everything was perfect. She did an amazing job.’ She ducks her head forward conspiratorially. ‘I wasn’t sure she would, you know. She was sort of a quiet achiever, always keeping to herself.’
‘I was against it at first,’ says Troy Shooter. ‘I was a bit sick of all the arts stuff getting through when we couldn’t even get new nets for the soccer field.’ His muscles bulge under his shirt and he rubs at his eyes like a sleepy child. ‘But Rose was pretty convincing when she wanted to be. She definitely knew how to get her way! And my wife wanted to go, she loves Shakespeare, so we went along and I have to say it was topnotch. Really professional.’ Troy starts to cry. ‘She was a great girl,’ he tells us, tears spilling from his eyes.