‘Hi, Anna,’ I say, shielding my face from the sun and stepping over a dirty plastic bag, crab-walking along the edge towards her.
Anna is standing knee-deep in the lake in her waterproof scrubs. She looks like an astronaut. I can tell she is hot; her face is red and her fringe sticks to her forehead in messy little lines.
‘Right,’ she says, when we are close enough. ‘Well, guys, you know the drill. We have a deceased female, twenty-eight years of age. Her birthday would’ve been on Christmas Day, actually, according to her ID, which is a Smithson Secondary College teacher’s library card. She’s been dead for at least five hours, but it could be up to eight; the water makes it hard to tell. I’ll be able to be more accurate later. Like I said to McKinnon earlier, I think she was dead before she hit the water. There’s a large wound on the side of her head. I’d guess she was struck with a rock or something with rough edges but this should be clear when we do the autopsy. There might be dirt or gravel that confirms the weapon. I’d say she was strangled too, based on the marks on her neck, and obviously I’ll want to run tox as well. I’m thinking lovers’ tiff. Or a random attack, especially if her wallet is missing.’ Anna pushes damp hair away from her eyes. ‘Either way, this isn’t pretty. It looks like she’s been assaulted too: her underwear is missing and there is some bruising around her thighs and upper arms. Again, I’ll know more when we get her back to base. But I can rule out suicide and accidental death for you. This is a homicide.’
I look at Felix. He is staring down at Rosalind, seemingly deep in thought.
Anna gestures for the forensic team to come and get Rose’s body. The reporters have arrived and are roaming up and down the police line like hungry lions. I see the black puff of a microphone bobbing along above the small crowd. The glint of a camera lens. The flick of sleek, TV-ready hair.
Great, the last thing I need today is a run-in with pocket-rocket reporter Candy Fyfe.
Anna puts her hands on her hips. ‘Okay, guys, I’m done here. We’ve taken all the shots and bagged everything. Nothing that I think will be helpful. Mind you, there’s bloody rubbish everywhere. Water never helps.’
‘Yep, much better if everyone was killed in the middle of a wide open sports field on a still day,’ says Roger cheerily. Roger is one of our longest-serving forensics. He’s been with the Smithson police force for almost forty years and has a perpetually sunny attitude regardless of the situation. I often picture him at home, happily telling his wife about his cases: ‘Yes, the dead girl was strangled, it seems, murdered in cold blood. Pass the salt, please, darling.’
Roger and Fred, our other forensic guy, pull up the tarp and place the stretcher carefully underneath Rose’s left side. Above us is the belly of a low-flying helicopter, and I come around the right side to block the view of her body. Rose is pulled onto the white surface. Her face is exactly as I remember it. A Disney princess beauty: her even features waiting patiently for a prince’s kiss. When I heard a few years ago that she’d returned to Smithson and was a teacher at the school, I was disappointed. I wanted better for her than that. Her hair hangs to the side, and Fred picks it up and pulls it along her face so that it rests across her shoulder and down the side of her arm. He looks at her as if she is a sleeping child. I remember that Fred’s wife had their first baby a few months ago and I wonder what is going through his mind.
Rosalind’s toenails are painted a vivid blue and there are silver rings on her fingers. Her brows and lashes are dark against her pale skin. I remember trying to re-create those eyebrows in my bedroom. Even though my colouring was much darker than hers, it had never looked right.
Fred and Roger close the body bag around her. The marks on her neck are almost black. Her dark chocolate eyes stare unflinching into the burning sun. The harsh buzz of the zip and then she is gone.
‘Right, well, I’ll see you all soon, I’m sure.’ Anna’s already checking her phone as she walks off towards the car park.
We instruct the field team to begin the search.
‘Start with the area around the lake,’ I tell Charlie, our field lead. ‘Then move into the playground and the bushland. And get rid of all these people. It’s a bloody nightmare.’
Several uniforms start instructing people on the outskirts of the police tape to leave. I watch as a teenage boy casually holds out his phone and takes a photo of Rosalind’s body being bundled into an ambulance before sprinting off towards the town centre.
We’re already running out of time to get in front of this thing.
I turn back to the lake. The water gives nothing away.
Once everything is set in motion, we get into my car and head back to the station. Felix is listening to voicemails. He reaches over and gives my hand a slow squeeze. A deep shiver plays through me. I pull my hand away and flick on the radio to drown out the buzz in my ears. The ache has settled deep in my groin where my belt is pressing and I shift my weight, trying to placate it. I can’t tell how much I’m still bleeding and want desperately to get to the bathroom at work. I want to be alone.
I brake suddenly, seeing a red light just in time. Felix throws me a look but I keep my gaze on the road. Rosalind Ryan is dead. Rosalind Ryan is dead, I think, over and over. And then I think that somehow I always knew that something like this would happen.
Chapter Three
Saturday, 12 December, 11.36 am
‘Are you sure you’re fine to work this one, Woodstock?’ says Jonesy. There is coffee spittle in his moustache. His belly protrudes past his pants and he rubs at it distractedly. ‘McKinnon tells me you knew the dead girl.’
We are standing in one of the little offices off the main room of the police station. Ken Jones, our chief superintendent, has obviously decided that Rosalind’s murder warrants his presence. I can’t remember the last time I saw him down here on a weekend.
I recall flashes of Rosalind’s face in the schoolyard. Glimpses of her creamy skin in the school change room, her large eyes glowing back at me knowingly. Years later, I slowed my car to watch her walking in front of me, arms heavy with shopping, her long skirt swishing above her feet. Her grainy face in my high school yearbook faded from the rub of my fingers.
Her staring back at me in class, daring me to look away.
I know every inch of her face.
I clear my throat. ‘Yes, sir. I knew her a bit but it’s not a problem. Honestly. We weren’t friends and I haven’t really seen her since we were in school. Ages ago.’
My heart is flying; I hate lying to Jonesy but how else can I put it? It is impossible to explain Rosalind to him in any other way.
‘Well, good. ’Cause I want you to throw everything at this. Both you and McKinnon. Get tight on this one. It’s going to be big.’ He takes a noisy slurp of his takeaway coffee. ‘Do what you need to do today, sort out her family, and then get some sleep so you can hit the ground running tomorrow.’