We get out of the car and slam the doors heavily behind us. I don’t mind if George Ryan knows someone is coming, though of course nothing will ease him into the shock he is about to get. Unless he already knows, I think darkly.
Telling family and friends about a murdered loved one is never easy. Parents are usually the worst, their grief so pure and unchecked. They tend to immediately recast the dead adult offspring back to their childhood version. Distraught mothers often relive the moment they first held their infants, and shape their arms into an empty cradle, even if the birth was sixty years earlier. On the other hand, children of the newly dead are often bravely stoic, realising their new responsibility and position at the top of the food chain. Plus, they are busy with a myriad of distracting, grown-up jobs: legal tasks, funerals to arrange, relatives to inform. Siblings are distraught, of course, but there is often a strange ingrained competitiveness that has them imagining the roles reversed. They picture themselves as the dead child and compare hypothetical grief and reactions. Even in death, the ability to pull rank can be strong.
Informing the family of a murder is particularly difficult because our best chance at a solve is maintaining a completely open mind. We must have the ability to see past a broken stare. To look beyond pale-faced agony and the wringing of hands. Murderers are people too, and in many instances the grief they show for a victim is real, despite having caused it.
George Ryan is listed as Rosalind’s next of kin. I’m pretty sure she also has three older brothers.
‘I can only remember one of them,’ I tell Felix, as we walk to the door. The driveway is lined with a cloud of wattle and the sun bounces off it, making a ferocious yellow blaze. ‘He seemed kind of cocky. I think the others were a bit older than us.’
‘No mother?’ asks Felix.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Not that I can remember.’
The front door flies open just as I am about to press the doorbell.
‘Hello?’ A short, clean-shaven man with neatly combed hair and a complexion starved of sunshine stands in front of us. A rush of air-con swirls out from behind him. His small eyes dart back and forth between us.
‘Hello. Sorry to arrive unannounced but we need to speak to George Ryan.’
The man bobs his head up and down. ‘Oh. He’s only just out of bed. He’s not feeling one hundred percent.’
‘Well, I’m afraid we’ll still need to speak with him. I’m Detective Sergeant Woodstock. This is Detective Sergeant McKinnon.’
A haze of understanding falls over the man’s stare. ‘You’d better come in then. I’m Marcus. George’s son.’ He steps aside, gesturing for us to enter. On our left is a polished wooden stairway. To the right, a high-ceilinged hallway displays a heavy-looking oil painting.
‘Is Mr Ryan unwell?’ Felix asks, as we follow Marcus towards the back of the house.
‘He had surgery yesterday,’ Marcus informs us. ‘But he’s recovering well.’
Felix and I exchange looks. We are probably about to bring his recovery to a grinding halt.
‘This way, please,’ says Marcus. ‘Everyone is in here. My brothers are here too.’
He leads us into a large open room at the rear of the house.
Three men sit on a giant cream couch along the right wall of the room. Their eyes are glued to the cricket, which is playing soundlessly in high definition on one of the biggest televisions I have ever seen. The ceiling peaks directly above them and windows are cut into its sides, casting blades of light onto the floor near their feet. Photographs crowd the mantelpiece. On one end there is a large frame featuring a striking raven-haired woman with glittering blue eyes. From the kitchen I hear a radio tuned in to the cricket match on the TV.
Outside, a sparkling lap pool glitters in the bright sunlight.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Woodstock and this is Detective Sergeant McKinnon.’
Six eyes look at me blankly.
‘Please sit,’ insists Marcus, coming up behind me and ushering us into chairs. ‘This is my father, George Ryan. And my brothers, Bryce and Timothy.’
If Bryce and Timothy recognise me, they don’t show it. Steam curls from the mug that George Ryan is holding. He is the largest of them all: broad across the shoulders and overweight, but in a way that suits his frame. He is very pale. His hands shake as he steadies the tea on his knee. His younger sons flank him. While Marcus looks like he has stepped straight out of the early twentieth century, Timothy and Bryce are quintessential modern Aussies. They are both deeply tanned with loose-necked t-shirts, surf-brand shorts and wiry hair like ivy woven up their muscled legs. Straight white teeth underneath denim blue eyes complete the look.
I look at each of them in turn before speaking to George Ryan. ‘Unfortunately, we have some very bad news.’ I take a huge breath and close my eyes briefly before saying, ‘Your daughter Rosalind was found dead this morning. We believe she was murdered.’
A ball connects with a bat on the radio and it sounds like a gunshot. The crowd oohs and aahs, and I watch carefully as the shock hits the Ryans square in the face.
Marcus looks desperately at his father and brothers and then back to me. ‘What?’
George Ryan shifts into an upright position, clearly in pain. ‘Rosalind is dead?’
Timothy and Bryce are gobsmacked bookends staring dumbly into their laps.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’
Marcus scurries to the kitchen and snaps the radio off. The silence rushes through the house and I find myself desperate to say something. ‘We believe Rosalind died late last night or very early this morning. After the play at the school.’
‘What happened?’ George Ryan’s booming voice is glorious. Syrupy and thick, it catches in his throat.
Felix leans forward. ‘We don’t know yet, Mr Ryan, but it is a homicide investigation. Your daughter was attacked. We’re terribly sorry, but can we please ask you all a few questions? We really need to know as much as we can. It will help us to find out who did this.’
George Ryan lets out a deep sigh, straight from his soul. He grimaces as he pulls himself up to place his mug on the coffee table. I imagine going from the ordeal of surgery to being told that your only daughter has been murdered.
‘My little girl is dead?’ His face wobbles wildly and his eyes seem unable to focus. He looks to me for confirmation. To check that the awful thing I just said is true.
I nod quickly, considering his reaction.
He pushes his fingers against his eyes and holds them there for a moment. ‘Ask us anything,’ he says to the floor.
‘I’ll get some water,’ says Marcus, jumping up from his chair again. His eyes are bright with tears and his lip quivers.
‘We’re fine, honestly.’
‘No, no, come on, please,’ he insists. ‘It’s so hot.’
I sense Marcus needs to have a task. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Get me a water too, please, Mark,’ says George softly, as Marcus walks out of the room. ‘And bring me my pills.’