Felix bursts in. He waves for me to keep talking and takes a seat up the back.
I look Jonesy in the eye. ‘Well, there’re the teachers. In particular, the principal, Nicholson. Then there’re the students.’ I glance at Felix, who raises an eyebrow at me, before I say reluctantly, ‘There was an alleged issue with a student at her previous school, so there could be a pattern with our victim and younger men. She would have had a lot of interaction with the lead in the play, Rodney Mason. And Kai Bracks, the backstage manager—also in year twelve—is rumoured to have had a crush on her earlier this year. Someone sent her some flowers on Valentine’s Day and a lot of people think it was him.’ I pause, picturing the roses on my front porch. ‘And one of her neighbours mentioned a man in a fancy car paying her a visit a few weeks ago but nothing has come of that so far. Or maybe it’s some random, normal guy she met somewhere.’ I sip at my cold coffee. ‘Or she could have been lying to Lila about being in a relationship, seeing as Lila is overseas and would never know any better. If she was seeing someone, he hasn’t come forward, which in itself would be incredibly suspicious. In saying that, her phone records certainly don’t give a clue to her seeing someone. She barely called anyone or received any calls. The only suspicion comes from a couple of calls from a prepaid phone that we can’t lock down. So maybe Rosalind wanted to make her life sound more exciting and fabricated a romance.’
Jonesy coughs and it reminds me of sandpaper. ‘She did seem to live in her head a bit. Ditzy, isn’t that what you call it? Okay, so this is all just maybes. Anything solid yet? Where are we at?’
I stand and move towards the large pin boards. Multiple Rosalinds stare at me.
I look Jonesy in the eye. ‘We’re not really anywhere yet, sir. It could still be a random attack, of course, which would certainly explain why nothing is adding up.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘No. It doesn’t explain why she was at the lake. I still think it was personal.’ I pause and then say, ‘The pregnancy is a possible motive.’
‘You think the father wanted the baby dead?’
‘Maybe. Or it could simply point to the kind of serious relationship that Rosalind described to Lila Wilcox. Perhaps it turned abusive. They might have fought about something. Maybe things were going well between them but then she told him about the pregnancy and he got scared.’
Jonesy grunts. ‘She could have got knocked up by a stranger. Someone she just met.’
‘She could have,’ I allow, ‘but I don’t think so. That definitely seems unlikely based on what we know about her character and the fact that she was so many weeks along. It suggests she was considering keeping the baby.’
‘What was her character?’
I sigh, puffing air into my cheeks. ‘To be honest, sir, it’s difficult to define. Trying to nail down her personality is hard. A lot of people liked her and an equal number didn’t. She didn’t seem to be particularly close to anyone.’
‘What about the trouble at her other school?’ Jonesy presses.
I nod. ‘The incident at her old school seems to be an anomaly but could indicate a tendency to manipulate. She definitely made some waves when she pushed to have the school play. There’s no gambling, no serious drug issues, no public outbursts or criminal record. Really, there’s nothing.’ I glance at her photos on the board. ‘Plus, if she was seeing someone, why keep it a secret? Why keep it from her family and friends? She probably told Lila because she was a safe option living thousands of k’s away. But it does indicate that Rosalind wanted to talk about this guy. It makes me think that the relationship, assuming there was one, must have been problematic in some way. Maybe it was scandalous. Maybe he was married. There must have been something that made her want to keep it under wraps.’
Jonesy huffs. ‘Well, we need definites, not maybes, so it sounds like you still have a lot of work to do. I want you to keep looking into the kids. We’ve all known cases where crushes have gotten out of hand. And try to track down the man the neighbour said she saw. With the posh car. And see if you can get any more information from Rosalind’s old school. There might be a link there.’ He wipes sweat from his eyebrows. ‘But remember: no bloody overtime. I’m getting whipped from all angles.’
Chapter Thirty-two
Saturday, 19 December, 5.42 am
Tucked neatly next to the shock of Rosalind’s murder are thoughts of Christmas. It’s only a week away, or so the screaming ads on the radio tell me. The shops rumble with quiet panic. Smithsonians are into Christmas in a big way. The tatty plastic on the decorations in the main streets rustles uncomfortably in the heat. At this hour, there is barely a soul about, just the occasional dog walker or jogger. I wonder if people are still doing laps of the lake or whether they are sticking to the roads since Rose was found there. It’s funny how paranoia seeps into the air. How it can curl around doors and into thoughts. Fasten locks and quicken steps.
In contrast to the soft dawn, the bakery on Hopkins Street is defiantly lit up like a Christmas tree. Inside, I see Nick Gould yanking empty wire trays from the display shelves. Nick was in my year, just like Rosalind. His claim to fame was being able to eat four large pizzas in a single sitting. My friend Janet had given him a blow job after one such display of manliness at a house party and she swore that his come had tasted like tomato and basil.
Huge trucks block the entrance of the Woolworths car park. A cigarette flicks from the front window of the vehicle nearest to me and lands dangerously close to a discarded newspaper. The glowing ember is followed by an impressive wad of phlegm. Jill’s Turkeys runs in a repetitive ribbon along the belly of the truck and I think about the giant empty carcasses, headless and hanging, bobbing along silently in rows as if making small talk about the weather.
Jerking my car into a park, I grab the shopping bags and hope this won’t take too long.
‘Gemma!’
‘Hey, Sydney.’ I never fail to see someone I know when I’m doing the shopping, but I hoped that my extra-early start might give me a better chance of avoiding unwanted chat.
‘Nasty business with the teacher.’
I nod. Sydney owns the only indoor playground in Smithson. Her favourite colour is pink and she has fitted out the centre accordingly. I never take Ben there: it’s like being inside a giant stomach. Today Sydney looks flushed and blotchy. Her hair is pulled back tight from her face, reminding me of a water-spitting bath toy that Ben likes to bash against the side of the tub.
‘Chemical peel,’ she says, patting her cheeks. ‘It’s supposed to go down by Christmas. It’s good for redness.’ She stabs at her face with a sharp orange nail. ‘We’re starting to get old, you know, Gemma.’
I nod again, assuming I’m supposed to agree, and move more quickly towards the supermarket entrance. Sydney almost trips over in her heels trying to keep up with me.