‘Ms Fyfe, I can assure you that we are conducting this investigation exactly as you would expect. We’re looking into everything. But we are leaving our judgment out of it. I’d encourage you all to do the same.’
‘Of course.’ Candy remains standing and her cameraman whips back and forth as if he is covering a tennis match. ‘One final question if I may. Do you feel comfortable with Detective Gemma Woodstock leading the case, seeing as she knew the victim so well?’
Surprised, I feel my face flush as all eyes turn to me. Felix mutters something under his breath. Jonesy turns and gives me a reassuring wink, his jaw clenching.
‘Detective Woodstock is one of our most capable officers. Like many people who grew up around here, she has personal connections that are sometimes going to cross over into her work but she’s a professional. We all are.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Candy sits down, a slow smile spreading across her face as she leans forward to make more notes.
Another reporter rises and questions Jonesy on the Smithson Regional Centre solve rate in comparison to the city statistics. Jonesy rattles off a bunch of numbers and talks about challenging political times and the need for additional funding.
Cynthia points at her watch, indicating that it’s time to wrap things up.
‘Right, we’re done,’ barks Jonesy obediently. ‘What would help us would be getting your readers, watchers, tweeters, whatever, to think about anything they have seen recently that seems unusual. A conversation with someone that isn’t quite right. Something they may have stumbled across that, in light of Ms Ryan’s death, might be worth talking to us about.’
Jonesy’s voice lifts a little as he gears up for his finale. ‘We must remember that a woman is dead. Her life has been tragically cut short. That’s what we’re focused on and we would appreciate any support that Smithson residents and those living in surrounding areas can provide. Thank you.’
He walks away from the lectern. Felix and I follow.
‘Pack of arseholes,’ Jonesy says under his breath as we step back into the station.
In the background, a huddle of kookaburras on the powerline begin to laugh as if they have just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Chapter Twenty-five
Thursday, 17 December, 7.33 pm
I’m at the pub near the train line. Anna is late and I’m almost at the bottom of my first glass of wine. I curl my hand around its stem and look down the bar. A couple of old guys throw glances my way. A young family is seated at one of the tables. Two little girls are eating chips with their sauce. I kick my legs out and hit against the wooden panelling that lines the bar. Artie, the owner, looks up at me, face ready with a scowl, and then sees it’s me causing the ruckus and smiles instead.
‘Another, sweetheart?’
‘I should wait for my friend.’
He sips at a frothy beer. He probably thinks it’s Felix I’m waiting for. We come here sometimes. ‘Well, if you change your mind, just ding the bell.’
‘Will do, Artie.’
The muscles across my neck feel like a block of cement. I flip open my notebook and read over my scrawls. If someone found my notebook, it would be hard for them to guess whether it belongs to a good guy or a bad guy, so bizarre are my ramblings.
I map through some of the strands of information we have so far. Rosalind’s parentage: could that be the key to this whole thing? Did George Ryan somehow discover his wife’s betrayal and fly into a rage? Did he throw money at the problem and arrange to have her removed when he had the air-tight alibi of a night in hospital? Or perhaps hot-headed Timothy found out and, knowing that his father is increasingly unwell, objected to his half-sister getting an equal share of the inheritance and felt he needed to rush things along? This possibility does seem quite dramatic when his share is so substantial anyway, but people have done a lot worse for less than the $300,000 or so extra that Timothy stood to receive.
Although his argument with Rosalind and their lack of contact since remain suspicious, we haven’t found anything to implicate Timothy. On the night of the play he made no calls, but two phone towers have him moving between them in a manner that would make a trip from the school to his father’s house plausible. His credit card wasn’t used that evening and the security footage that George gave us shows his car turning into the garage just before 10.55 pm. Timothy says that Bryce was in his room with the door shut when he got home but they didn’t actually see each other. Timothy says he can’t remember how he entered the school hall; says he probably just walked in the door like everyone else. But the fact that I can’t identify him on the CCTV bothers me. And why did he end up going to the play alone? I don’t buy his excuse that he forgot to ask someone to come along. Intuitively, I can’t shake the feeling that Timothy is bad news, but I need to work out whether he’s just a jerk or a dangerous killer.
And maybe this wasn’t a family matter at all, despite what George Ryan said. Our forensic finance guys have turned up more issues with several RYAN developments around town and there are rumblings of possible court proceedings driven by a mob of angry investors. While I find it hard to believe that someone with a business grudge would do something like this to Rosalind, I suppose it’s not impossible.
Regardless, everything I know and remember about Rosalind tells me that this is a crime of passion. Or maybe revenge.
Without realising it, I’ve drawn a looping circle across the notebook page in the shape of Sonny Lake.
I snap back to the present as Anna appears in front of me.
‘Sorry, Gem. Crazy day at the office, you know how it is.’ Anna slides onto the stool next to me and grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah. I had a wine while I was waiting.’ I gesture to my empty glass.
‘Damn right you did. Can’t sit in this awful place without a drink.’ Anna looks around. ‘Hey!’ she calls out. ‘Hello?’
‘There’s a bell, I think …’
Ding, ding, ding. Anna taps on the bell like it’s a hammer.
Artie stumbles out from the back room as if he’s been woken up in the middle of the night. He blinks at Anna and then looks at me. ‘Ah. Your girlfriend turned up. More wine?’
‘You got it, buddy. Bring us wine!’ Anna pulls her hair from its tie and fluffs it around her face. ‘Cripes, what a day.’
Anna is not conventionally pretty but has an elfin quality about her that I’m sure makes men think she’ll be a lot more passive than she is. She is small, with delicate fingers and petite feet, but her movements are big and she is loud, consistently two volume measures higher than everyone else.
Artie delivers our wine, and for a moment, Anna and I could be any two young women out for a nice drink on a Thursday night. Not two young women who have been exposed to the worst of humanity, who have dug past the horror to find the even more horrifying. I once asked Anna how she sleeps, and she laughed and said, ‘Like the dead, with one eye open.’