‘Yes, sir,’ I say. Felix nods.
‘I’m going to stick to the basics. I won’t mention the pregnancy. Nor the paternity query, obviously.’ A sharp look at me as though it’s my fault that Rosalind’s father turned out not to be George Ryan. ‘This is just a general appeal for information and also a means to provide some calm.’
He clears his throat noisily and then breaks into a hearty cough, thumping his chest aggressively. Felix and I exchange a look. I’m not sure that calm will be what Jonesy inspires, but after five days and no solve, he has no choice but to speak publicly.
‘Right then.’
Someone calls for quiet and a tech checks the mic. Jonesy ambles up to the lectern, his back straight, still clearing his throat. We hold our press conferences outside next to the undercover walkway between the police station and the car park. Jonesy always has the lectern positioned next to the main entrance, with the Australian coat of arms and the recently renovated front desk clearly visible for the TV cameras to capture.
‘Makes us look professional and not like some hick backwater effort,’ I heard him telling our media manager—poor, downtrodden Cynthia—who I suspect is still trying to figure out exactly what the internet is.
I also suspect that Jonesy thinks there is some kind of power in making all of the reporters stand outside. It doesn’t allow them to get too comfortable.
Felix and I follow Jonesy onto the small stage and stand behind his left shoulder.
‘Thank you, folks. I’m going to keep this fairly brief.’
I spot Candy Fyfe in the crowd, her dark skin glowing against a soft pink dress with cute capped sleeves. Candy’s grandfather was a local Aboriginal elder, one of the original custodians of the land that Smithson now lays claim to. Her grandmother was from a posh English family and their union was allegedly quite the scandal in the 1950s. Candy opens her notebook, pen poised, eyes fixed on Jonesy, and then suddenly on me. She arches a slender brow and I hold her stare before looking away. My shoes are badly scuffed, worn at the front. Under my pants I’m wearing mismatched socks, and I feel a surge of anger at Candy and her silent expectations. I know she feels let down by my inability to bond with her, one woman to another, but I just don’t buy into the gender roles battle. I simply push on and try to do a good job. I’m not interested in spending my time advocating for my rights: I want to earn them. In contrast, Candy is due to give her third keynote speech at the upcoming ‘Country Women in Conversation’, an event designed to support the advancement of women in business. I threw my invitation in the bin.
Jonesy begins his speech. ‘A sudden death is always a tragedy. Especially that of someone as young and important to our community as high school teacher Rosalind Ryan. But we are confident that we will be able to come to a resolution quickly and put whoever is responsible into custody.’
A reporter puts up her hand but Jonesy shakes his head. ‘I’ll take a few questions shortly, but first I want to be clear that we here at Smithson police station are doing everything we can to ensure justice for Ms Ryan and her family. We have our best officers dedicated to the case and they are being supported with extra staff from around the region. We are also in contact with our state counterparts to ensure the best methods and technology available to us are utilised.’
Jonesy looks at the crowd, eyeballing people randomly, daring them to suggest otherwise. His bulky presence is powerful, but many Smithsonians are forced to endure the incongruity of having a forbidding station chief on the TV who is also regularly spotted shopping at the butcher in his two-sizes-too-small tracksuit pants.
‘Of course, these cases are not always solved as quickly as we would like. But we are making good progress, piecing together Ms Ryan’s movements and the details of her death to ensure we find the person or persons responsible. We’re committed to building a comprehensive case so that charges can be laid and a conviction attained.’ He claps his hands as if he is about to tuck into a meal. ‘Right. Questions?’
The young reporter who had been shushed earlier speaks first. ‘Mr Jones, should people living in Smithson be scared? I mean, there’s a killer on the loose, right?’
Jonesy looks at the reporter as if he’d like to immediately prove her correct.
‘Nothing so far suggests that anyone need be fearful of something else like this happening. We advise everyone to simply take normal precautions. Don’t walk alone at night, tell people where you’re going—things like that.’ He waves flies away and shields his eyes as he looks out at the gathered media. ‘Yes?’
A young bearded man speaks up. ‘Mr Jones, Dan Robuck from the Gowran Tribune. From what you are saying, it sounds like the police don’t think the attack on Ms Ryan was a random crime.’
‘At this stage we do not believe it was random. We are investigating several individuals in relation to the attack, confirming their whereabouts and matching this with the CCTV footage we have secured and crime scene evidence.’
This is somewhat of a stretch based on the pathetic amount of information we have, but it causes a ripple through the audience, and they start jotting down notes and whispering to each other, no doubt mentally penning headlines that implicate the Ryan family or assume a sordid love triangle.
It is certainly a livelier press conference than most of the ones we conduct, even attracting journalists from the metro networks. Rosalind’s murder is any aspiring reporter’s wet dream, and none of them want to miss the opportunity to splash another head shot of her across the front page, even if the new information revealed is as weak as milky tea.
Candy stands up and her cameraman whirls around to catch her asking her question before spinning back to Jonesy for his answer.
‘Mr Jones, Candy Fyfe from Country TV and the Smithson Times.’ She smiles, faking self-consciousness at her ubiquity. ‘Many people are speculating Ms Ryan was involved in several questionable relationships that may have led to her murder. Do you have a comment on that?’
‘All I would say to that, Ms Fyfe, is that my team is focused on finding the killer rather than scrutinising Ms Ryan’s lifestyle. No one deserves to be attacked like she was. Full stop.’
Jonesy’s comment has all but confirmed the suggestion that Rosalind had a juicy personal life. I shudder to think of the outrageous rumours circulating around Smithson, whispered in shops and debated at dinner tables.
‘I’m not suggesting she was at fault, Mr Jones, but surely you are looking into Ms Ryan’s personal affairs?’