I’ve felt like this before. Like I’m in a dark room, feeling for the edges of a door, but instead going round and round the dark square and forgetting where I’ve already checked. I am hollow.
Without discussing it, Felix and I have divided Rosalind’s case in half, divvying up suspects and dispensing the outstanding tasks like pieces of an apple. I’ve got the Ryans. He has the teachers. I have Nicholson. He has the students—with the exception of Rodney.
‘I spoke to Rodney Mason this morning,’ I announce at the informal check-in Jonesy requested. It’s just me, Felix, Matthews and Kingston now. ‘He admitted to having feelings for Ms Ryan.’
‘Feelings.’ Jonesy snorts, as if it’s the worst condition imaginable. ‘Well, that sounds promising. What are you thinking, Woodstock? Were these feelings mutual?’
I recall Rodney’s grip on my hand. The flatness in his stare. I think about Jacob picking me up and throwing me onto my bed, tickling me mercilessly and covering me with kisses. Laughing until my face ached. I remember somewhere deep in my soul the contented peacefulness of love-struck teenage tiredness settling deep in my limbs.
‘He says they never acted on it. But they were definitely close. I think I believe him. But then there’s what Izzy said she saw. I guess we can try to get permission to secure DNA and see if it’s a match to the foetus.’
‘And if it’s his?’
‘Then we’ll know, sir. We’ll know he’s lying about the relationship. That would be fairly telling.’ Then I quickly add, ‘We’re also still looking at Timothy Ryan. His alibi is flimsy but there’s no indication as to where else he was that night. And we can’t write off John Nicholson either. We’re at a bit of a dead end.’
Felix’s eyes narrow on me briefly.
‘Well, figure it out.’ Jonesy looks stressed. He clears his throat unnecessarily. ‘Right, everyone, off you go.’
I make a coffee in the kitchen. The kettle hisses against the quiet of the station. Phones bleat sporadically from the front desk. I can hear Kenny asking someone to slow down so that he can understand them, his voice cracking like a teenager’s. I walk back to my desk, the hint of a headache forming at my temples. Papers ruffle gently in response to the creaking ceiling fans. The air-con still isn’t fixed. Discarded coffee cups dot across the tops of messy desks. Stale smoke mingles with the smell of men and days of heat.
I stand still for a moment and look squarely at the pin board. Rosalind’s face is large, surrounded by smaller photos of the crime scene and the autopsy. The coffee mixes sharply with the freshness of the apple I’ve just eaten but I drink past the taste. Slowly I take everything down from the board. Maps, photos, phone records, post-its. I look at the neat little pile on the chair. I grab some fresh post-its and map out a new timeline from scratch. I start with the Ryans arriving in Smithson in 1980. Olivia Ryan’s affair with Nicholson in 1987. Rosalind’s birth, Olivia’s death a few days later. The RYAN business sky-rocketing. George marrying Lila in 1997. Rosalind starting to see Jacob in November 2005. Maybe earlier, I admit to myself. Jacob dying in December. Rodney is just seven years old. Rosalind moving away, studying, living in the city. Landing a job as a teacher in a large city school. The rumoured relationship with the student there. Returning to Smithson in late 2011 and into her modest cottage on the highway. In 2012 she starts teaching at Smithson. Has a passion for drama and fights to produce the school play. Has a blowout with her brother at her dad’s birthday in October 2015. She applies for a teaching job in Brisbane the same month. Izzy Mealor claims to have seen Rosalind and Rodney Mason kissing at the school in November. Her play opens on Friday, 11 December. Rosalind Ryan is dead sometime that same evening. I am warned off the case with the roses a few days after the investigation begins. Ben is taken, another warning, one week later. John Nicholson confesses to believing Rosalind was his daughter the entire time.
I wriggle my toes, pulling each knee to my chest and stretching my stiff legs. I look up at my newly arranged board.
Could Jacob really be relevant to Rosalind’s death or is that just a tempting thought because of the link between the two of them? I’ve told no one else about Rose dating him; it’s not something that I’ve ever spoken about and I don’t really want to start now. I imagine coming clean about what happened all those years ago and feel panic surge through me.
Who benefitted financially from Rosalind’s death? Only her brothers directly. But for others, killing Rosalind might have been a way to stop secrets from spilling out. Maybe the father of her baby hadn’t wanted her to keep it; hadn’t wanted her telling everyone that he was the father. Was killing her a way of getting rid of the baby and keeping her quiet? Or was she involved in something bigger? Something we haven’t even thought of yet?
The pieces dangle in front of me, not quite fitting together. I squint, trying to force the notes and pictures to make sense, until the only thing I can see clearly is Rosalind’s face trapped in the middle, completely unfazed by the surrounding chaos.
Chapter Sixty-two
Wednesday, 30 December, 11.17 am
‘I need to talk to you.’
I try to place the voice. ‘Rodney? Is that you?’
‘Yeah. Can we meet?’
‘Hang on.’
Felix eyes me from his desk. His hair looks different today. He’s forgotten to put gel in it. I get up and walk the length of the station. ‘Okay.’ I duck into an empty interview room. ‘What’s going on, Rodney?’
Rodney sounds like he’s crying. Or has been. ‘I just want to talk to you. Can you meet me?’
‘Sure. Sure. Um, do you want me to come and pick you up?’
‘Um, yeah, no, that won’t work. What about at the lake again?’
Discomfort bubbles inside me. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rodney. Do you want to come to the station?’ I picture parading him along the beige corridor and instantly hope that he rejects my suggestion.
‘No.’ He says the word like a bullet. ‘What about the pizza place by the little park near my house? It’s always empty during the day. You know it?’
‘Yeah. I know it.’
We ring off and I walk out of the station to my car. As I pass the skate park, I stare at the base of the skate jump, marvelling at the courage that must be needed to scale the peaks.
Rodney seems nervous as I slide into the booth across from him. Cherry’s Pizza is clearly not popular during the day. A frail-looking man mechanically tosses pizza dough into circles behind the counter and there is only one other customer, a wizened-looking elderly woman heroically making her way through a large margherita. I don’t recognise either of them. I kept a careful eye out on the way here to make sure I wasn’t tailed by reporters and it appears my efforts were successful.