Anger bubbles up inside me again. ‘Why did you tell Jonesy about the flowers?’
‘Gemma, it’s a criminal investigation.’ I can tell by the way he’s talking to me that Maisie hasn’t said anything about seeing him. Seeing us. He’d be different. Frazzled. Instead, he’s looking at me with calm pity. I wonder whether she just hasn’t realised what she saw or whether she has decided to keep a secret from her father.
‘I fucking know that. Don’t be an arsehole.’
He looks at me evenly. ‘Gemma.’
White hot anger burns through my body. I can’t even speak.
‘Your son was taken. You’re not thinking straight. I think we all need to have all of the information. You can’t do this on your own.’
I kick at the ground and his mouth twitches into a brief smile.
‘Fuck you.’
He hardens. ‘Gemma. Come on. I’m trying to help.’
‘I’m not trying to do this on my own.’
‘Okay, good.’
‘What the fuck is your problem?’ I cry.
‘Gemma, now is not the time.’
‘For what?’
‘For a discussion about this.’
Two junior uniforms push out of the main entrance and glance apologetically our way before scuttling to their patrol car.
‘About what?’
He sighs as if I am a toddler throwing a tantrum. ‘About our relationship.’
‘Oh, is that what this is? I thought we were going to discuss the case.’ I whirl around and stalk back towards the office, yelling over my shoulder. ‘I’m going to talk to the Ryans. Timothy and Bryce have some explaining to do.’
Timothy had flown back to Sydney on Saturday night for a fortieth and Bryce said he had gastro, so I wasn’t able to speak to them again yesterday. Neither of them was thrilled when I arranged for two fresh-faced uniforms to pick them up from George Ryan’s house bright and early this morning. Then, I deliberately kept them waiting for over an hour, scowling as they sat opposite each other on the uncomfortable chairs in the front room, before I suddenly separate them to begin the interviews.
They both maintain that their argument on Boxing Day was a silly misunderstanding.
They hadn’t slept well and it led to a fight over cooking breakfast.
Timothy misinterpreted something Bryce said and he snapped.
They’ve been under a lot of pressure.
They want to go home.
They have their lawyers on speed dial, you know.
Their father is very ill.
They need to be with him.
‘You weren’t with him yesterday,’ I point out.
‘I was sick myself,’ says Bryce.
‘It was my best mate’s birthday,’ says Timothy.
‘Let’s talk about your sister,’ I say.
They both pause.
‘Tragic, obviously,’ says Bryce.
‘Just a nightmare,’ says Timothy.
‘Okay, let’s go over a few things again. Where were you on Friday, 11 December?’
‘The school play,’ says Timothy cockily. ‘Romeo and Juliet. It was great. Much better than I thought it would be.’
‘But you didn’t speak with your sister?’ I ask.
‘No, she was busy, everyone wanted to talk to her.’
‘What about you, Bryce?’
‘Yep. Like I said, I got takeaway from the chicken shop, went home and watched a movie. I already told you all this.’
‘And you heard your brother come home?’ I say.
‘Yeah, like I said, I think so. Around eleven. I was on the phone to my girlfriend. She had a migraine, that’s why I stayed home that night. I heard the door open so I knew Timothy was home.’
‘Was Bryce’s door closed when you got home? How did you know he was home?’
‘I could hear him talking. I assumed he was on the phone.’
‘Okay. Back to Rosalind. Did you always get along?’ I ask Timothy.
‘She was our only sister. We spoiled her.’
‘And what about when you were younger? Did you get along?’
‘Of course,’ says Bryce.
‘Very well. She was very easygoing,’ says Timothy.
‘So easygoing that you took photos of her getting undressed?’ I press.
Indignant splutters are followed by the clearing of throats, which turn to narrowed eyes filled with suspicion.
‘I don’t really remember anything like that,’ says Bryce. ‘We were just kids mucking around.’
‘That was all her idea!’ says Timothy. ‘She wanted us to take photos of her. She was always asking us to do stuff like that.’
‘So you’re saying she instigated the photos being taken?’ I ask.
‘She definitely wanted us to take them,’ says Bryce.
‘I really don’t see the point in going over any of this. But yes, she knew. She always loved being the centre of attention,’ says Timothy. ‘She was manipulative.’
‘Do you think your sister was manipulative?’ I ask Bryce.
He shrugs. ‘She got what she wanted most of the time. Is that the same thing?’
‘I want to go home,’ says Timothy. ‘Are you charging us with anything?’
‘I’m leaving,’ announces Bryce. ‘Dragging all this up isn’t helping anyone.’
Chapter Sixty
Tuesday, 29 December, 6.55 am
The Sonny Lake car park is empty. For the first time in days it’s cool and the clouds are swollen with rain. I sit for a moment inside the quiet of the car and look out across the lake. The water is still, as if someone hit pause. I let my eyes drop a little and it could almost be an ice rink. In the early light the water is silver. I know Rosalind was already dead by the time she went into the water, but I still imagine her thrashing about, gulping for air as water fills her mouth, her dark eyes wide with fear. In my vision she is terrified, knowing she is about to die.
A motorbike revs loudly on the highway. I grab my thermos of instant coffee and walk down towards the lake. Dew shimmers on the grass. Small birds twitter and jump frenetically around the low shrubs that line the path. My limbs feel loose and long, finally free from the heat, though the smoke-choked sun is staging a comeback, peeking out from the edge of the earth like a hazy fireball. I sip at the tepid coffee and some spills down my chin.
‘Dammit!’ My anger flares but it’s Felix I’m thinking about. How fucking dare he?