‘No, confirming the paternity for the foetus won’t be a problem. Or should I say disproving it.’
I don’t correct her assumption. The two paternity puzzles dance before me, the gaps I’ve started filling in my mind making way for holes again. Regardless of who Rosalind’s father was, it’s still far more likely that her own pregnancy was a factor in her murder.
‘Great.’ Felix puts his hand on the door handle again.
‘Hey, Anna,’ I say, my voice slightly bratty, ‘what are the chances of two people with blue eyes having a child with dark brown eyes?’
She looks at me curiously. ‘It’s pretty unlikely. It’s not scientifically impossible but it’s definitely not common. Especially if the shade is really dark.’
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ I say smoothly to Felix, who sticks his tongue out at me.
I don’t often dream about Jacob anymore, but for about three years after he died I had a recurring dream almost every other night in which he was running away from me in the dark, his bare feet pounding on the hard ground as he ducked past branches and pushed through long grass. I didn’t know why I was chasing him but I knew that he was going to die, and panic was high in my throat, my heart pulsing like a drumbeat as we broke out of the dense bush and onto a moonlit sand dune.
‘Jacob!’ I screamed over and over, but he ran away from me, faster than he had ever run before, our feet catching on the cold sand.
I could feel death calling for him and I was crying messily, when he suddenly stopped and turned around. I came to a halt too. A ghostly glow bounced off his face and he looked straight through me with a sad smile. A goodbye smile, I thought a moment too late. A loud clock tick echoed around us, signalling that it was all over, and in unbearable slow motion, he fell backwards with total abandon. It seemed impossible that no one would catch him. But he was gone and I was left alone on the sand dune. There was no sound: it was like I was in the centre of a windowless dome.
Sobbing, and with silence blaring in my ears, the dream version of myself went to where Jacob had been standing, and it was then I realised I was teetering on the sharp edge of a huge cliff. I looked down at the broken star of his body. He stared blankly back at me from the middle of a rock as the arms of the navy blue ocean curled angrily around the edges of his cold, hard grave.
Chapter Twenty-two
Wednesday, 16 December, 10.11 am
‘It must be very difficult.’
George Ryan nods in reply. He looks better today. Some of the colour has come back into his face. He’s wearing charcoal suit pants and a crisp white shirt. I spy an ostentatious watch on his wrist. He moves slowly, his blue eyes cloudy. This is a look I know well. Often, when people lose a loved one, this flatness appears in their stare. It’s not so bad when they are talking or actively performing a task, but as soon as they stop, their eyes wander back to the grief and the marble sets in. I know I have this look too. It’s a sad thing when your default gaze broadcasts to the world that you’re thinking about death.
George places two mugs of tea on the coffee table and settles heavily into the armchair. A slight groan escapes his lips.
‘How are you feeling?’
He shrugs. ‘Oh well, it’s hard to say really. If you mean from the operation, then I’m not sure. Physical pain has somewhat taken a back seat.’
I sip at the tea and nod.
‘There’s not really an instruction manual for something like this,’ he says, his eyes fixed to a section of the wall.
‘No, there isn’t. That’s very similar to what John Nicholson said, actually.’
He looks up blankly. Then, ‘The principal at the school?’ He straightens and his voice thickens, carrying a sudden hardness.
I watch him carefully. I can picture him in a business environment; there is a sense of quiet power about him. ‘Yes.’
‘Well. He’s right, I suppose.’ George adds, ‘That man’s been bothering us about having a memorial at the school on Friday.’
‘Yes, I heard that,’ I say.
A flash of anger flickers in his eyes and he grunts.
I find myself coming to Nicholson’s defence. ‘Well, it might be good for people to have the chance to say goodbye. Especially her students.’
Neither of us speaks for a few moments as thoughts run through my mind. He overreacted just now, but the difficulty with a murder case is that everyone’s oddness is likely to be legitimate. Virtually everyone we speak to is feeling some sense of loss. Plus, they are scared; their normal lives have been pulled apart by the blunt reminder of mortality. Navigating the difference between weird but normal grief as opposed to truly suspicious behaviour is key for any detective worth their stripes.
‘Do you mind if I ask what your surgery was for?’
He relaxes back into his chair and his eyes soften again. ‘I have prostate cancer.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ I say.
He waves my comment away. ‘It’s manageable so far and I’ve kept it all very low-key. I don’t want to make a big fuss. So far I seem to be hanging on remarkably well.’
‘When did you go into hospital?’
He gives me a look that makes it clear he knows I’m confirming his alibi but he answers easily. ‘I went in at about seven on Friday morning. Marcus picked me up from the hospital on Saturday morning on the way back from the airport. I think around nine.’
‘Your other sons couldn’t pick you up?’
He grimaces. ‘My other sons don’t get up early. Plus, I was at Our Lady, so Marcus was coming past anyway.’
His voice rolls across the vast room, up the walls and along the ceiling. It’s a classic sales voice and I remind myself that this man is used to being in control. He isn’t familiar with situations that you can’t pay your way out of. Like a murdered daughter. Or even, perhaps, an adulterous wife.
‘Do your sons always stay here when they visit?’
‘Usually. When Timothy was still with Alice they sometimes stayed with him, but he’s here now anyway.’
‘Are you happy to have him living here?’
George looks at me without talking for almost a minute and I have to force myself not to squirm. ‘Well, the house is big enough that I barely notice. It’s fine for now.’
‘Mr Ryan, I have to ask you about your sons.’
‘Yes,’ he says, a defensive note creeping into his voice.
‘We’ve confirmed that Marcus flew into Gowran on Saturday morning but we’re finding it difficult to confirm that Bryce was home all evening and that Timothy was at the school before he returned here. I assume you have security tapes in the house?’
His eyes are steel but after a moment he waves his hand. ‘Yes, just outside. You’ll be able to see cars coming and going from the garage. And the street in front of the house. You can look at the files whenever you want.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ryan,’ I say. ‘I’ll have them all collected this afternoon.’ Then, changing tack, I ask, ‘How is your business these days?’