He looks at me and I feel the mood shift again. He seems to shut down and sink into himself, wary.
‘Yes. I’ve helped all my children in different ways, depending on what they wanted.’ He carefully rolls up the cuff of his shirtsleeve. ‘Rose only wanted a little place. She was not an extravagant person. I thought it was a good idea after so long being the only girl, and the baby, that she have a bit of independence.’ He smiles at me, his mouth pulling sharply at both ends until it seems to fall into a small snarl. ‘Have you any further information on what happened that night?’
‘At this stage nothing concrete, unfortunately. We’re gathering a lot of information and speaking to a lot of people who knew your daughter. There’s still a lot to review. We’re doing everything we can.’
‘Is it true what they say, that if there is no suspect in the first seventy-two hours, the case isn’t likely to be solved?’
I make myself look him in the eye. ‘We certainly prefer to have a suspect or suspects straight away, Mr Ryan. That tends to lead to a better outcome. But every case is different and follows its own course. I can promise you we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to your daughter.’
‘The funeral is on Friday, you know. In the afternoon.’
‘Yes, I heard that,’ I say.
‘It is unthinkable to have to plan the funeral of your child.’
‘I honestly can’t imagine how hard it must be, Mr Ryan.’
‘No.’ He grabs at his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘Mr Ryan, you are a wealthy man. I have to ask, will each of your children receive an equal part of your estate eventually?’
He sighs. ‘Yes, yes. I’ve arranged all of that.’
‘Is it something that you discuss with them?’
‘My wealth is not a secret. But neither is the fact that over half of my estate is going to various charities.’
‘Without wanting to be presumptuous, Mr Ryan, I assume that still leaves a significant inheritance for your children?’
‘Yes. Certainly. A percentage of my estate will be split evenly between them. Assuming they sell the business, they will receive around a million dollars each.’ His eyes drift to the floor again as he says, ‘More now, I suppose.’
I let the motive sit between us for a few seconds. George eyes me steadily but I notice his left hand shaking.
‘Your daughter …’ I say, letting the word linger a moment. I want to ask him directly if he is Rosalind’s father, but if he is clueless about the possibility that she isn’t his daughter, I have to consider whether he deserves to deal with deceit as well as death.
‘Yes?’ He looks up at me expectantly.
‘She seemed quite different to your sons. Different to you. Would you say she was a bit of a black sheep?’
His eyes meet mine and then drop back to the floor. ‘I suppose she was. Yes.’ His papery face creases as he brings his hands to his cheeks. ‘She was very special. People were always drawn to her. I used to marvel at it when she was a child.’ He wipes at the jowly skin under his eyes. ‘I hardly knew her in a way, but the thing is, I loved her all the same.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Wednesday, 16 December, 9.02 pm
Sitting in the dark on my couch, with my laptop propped on the coffee table, I watch grainy figures pour out of the dimly lit school hall again. They link elbows, lean close and talk excitedly to one another. The heat from the night is evident in their short skirts and skimpy tops. A pixellated Rosalind emerges about ten minutes after the play ends, bouquets piled in her slender arms. Her beauty transcends the poor quality of the CCTV files that Smithson High’s security company provided. She looks like a ballerina, graciously accepting enthusiastic praise. Pulling my gaze away from the computer screen, I briefly place my half-finished beer bottle on each eye. Blood surges, and it feels like tiny bugs are crawling through the capillaries in my eyelids. I blink a few times, gearing up for another viewing. So far, I haven’t been able to identify Timothy Ryan, though he could be one of about fifteen blurry men.
I interviewed Kai Bracks today. A vacant, clammy kid who looked up at me stupidly from underneath heavy-lidded eyes. He seemed to have trouble focusing on any one thing; his gaze swayed around the room as he considered my questions.
He said he’d heard about the flowers that had been sent to Rosalind Ryan for Valentine’s Day—everyone heard about it—but he didn’t know anything about them. No, he definitely wasn’t the one that sent them. No, he didn’t know who had. Sure, he’d liked Ms Ryan, she was nice. Yes, he thought she was pretty, just like everyone thought she was pretty.
We had nothing. The flowers were bought so long ago and it had been vague at the time, all hearsay and gossip. And Rosalind wasn’t around to question.
Kai’s movements on Friday night are also unhelpfully sketchy: he was at the play, he had a backstage role, and then he went to the after party but claims to have gone home in between to pick up some booze. His parents were at a friend’s place so no one can vouch for this, though some other kids do remember him at the party. Of course there’s absolutely nothing to prove that he went anywhere near the lake either. A loose thread or a dead end? I can’t tell at this point.
After I updated Felix on my conversation with George Ryan, we finally heard back from the former principal of the secondary school in Sydney that Rosalind taught at. Felix decided to fly down there straight away to interview him and some of her old colleagues. Apparently, though nothing formal was ever reported, there was definitely a sense that Rosalind was trouble. A male student had confided to a teacher that he thought something was going on with his classmate and Rosalind. The teacher had passed this rumour on to the principal and the whole thing had blown up, culminating in Rosalind leaving the school at the end of the year.
Felix called me from Sydney airport while waiting for the flight back to Gowran.
‘What did she actually do?’ I asked him.
‘That’s the thing,’ he said, and I could hear airport noises in the background, ‘it’s all speculation. Rosalind never admitted to anything. But apart from the principal, I get the sense they all thought that the student was obsessed with her. Kept trying to trap her in situations where they were alone together. Just besotted, basically. It all seems pretty odd.’
‘What, don’t you think a young boy can behave like that?’
‘Of course I think it’s possible, but I just think it’s odd. Despite the fact that the boy seemed out of line, it’s clear that the principal was happy to see Rose go. He definitely didn’t like her. Plus, I guess no principal ever wants any kind of scandal on their watch.’