Stroking Ben’s head, I wondered whether Scott really was at Craig’s. What if he was actually at some girl’s place, locked in a desperate, sweaty tangle? Hours later I’m still trying to work out whether I would care either way.
As it was, I started the new year with the obligatory health kick, boiling eggs and squeezing a dash of lemon juice into a glass of water. When was the last time I went for a run? October? Before the heat. Funny how I still think a token decent meal will fix weeks of abuse. Ben was ratty, throwing his spoon on the floor and kicking his small feet on the underside of the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Dad when I dropped him off. ‘He slept well. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.’
‘He’s fine. Don’t worry, Gem,’ Dad said. He’s been on guard since our argument. Tiptoeing around me like I’m a ticking bomb. ‘We’ll be fine, won’t we, young man?’ he said to Ben.
Ben scowled at him and then at me, and I reversed down the driveway wishing I didn’t need to rely on Dad so much. Alone, I drove to the station, the eggs digesting noisily in my guts, a faint memory rolling through my mind of Mum holding out an egg to me, laughing because she had stuck little yellow pom-poms on it, along with some orange pipe-cleaner and googly eyes so that it looked like a demented chicken.
Kenny accosts me just as I’m heading to the bathroom. ‘Call for you, Gemma. It’s one of the Ryan brothers. He says it’s urgent.’
Felix’s eyes meet mine before he quickly looks away. I straighten my shoulders and say, ‘I’ll take it in an interview room,’ and head into one. I don’t turn the light on and sit with my back to the wall as the phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, hello. Ms Woodstock. Detective, I mean. Sorry. I don’t really know what to call you. It’s Marcus Ryan.’ His polite voice carries lightly down the phone line, reminding me of a flickering candle.
‘Marcus, hello,’ I say as warmly as possible, even though my patience is nearing zero. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Oh, well, it’s my father, you see. He’s … well, we’re at the hospital. He’s been very unwell these past few days. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Yes, I called him the other day but he never called me back. Do you know what he wants to speak to me about?’
‘About Rose, I think. I don’t know what exactly, but it’s obviously important. The thing is, you need to come today. The doctors said that you should come quickly.’
‘I’m sorry to hear he’s so ill, Marcus.’
‘Yes. Well. It has been a very difficult few weeks.’
‘He’s at Our Lady?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ I place the phone down and sit in the dark for a few moments, steadying my hands on the table in front of me, before walking back out into the station room.
‘What’s going on, Woodstock?’ Jonesy’s obviously been alerted to the call.
Everyone looks up and I feel small and shrunken standing in the dark doorway.
‘It’s George Ryan, sir. He’s still in the hospital. I don’t think he has long from the sounds of it. He wants to speak to me.’
I carefully avoid looking at Felix but hope that he will decide to come with me.
Despite what he said last night, I think that if we can just talk, spend some time together, surely we can work out how to patch the gaps that have formed over the past few weeks. Relax into our rhythm again. We just need time.
I start to gather my things. I feel Felix’s chair slide out as he stands.
‘I’ll come with you, Woodstock,’ says Jonesy, walking briskly to the door. ‘C’mon.’
I glance briefly at a slightly bewildered Felix before following after Jonesy obediently.
‘So he’s really dying, is he?’ says Jonesy, breaking the silence.
‘That’s the impression I got from his son Marcus,’ I reply.
‘Is this likely to be a deathbed confession?’
Jonesy is driving and I’m having trouble keeping my hands still.
‘I’d be very surprised if that was the case. George has the tightest alibi of everyone. McKinnon and I toyed with the possibility that he arranged to have her killed—he certainly has the money—but that never went anywhere. But he obviously wants to get something off his chest. Maybe he knows something.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing that he trusts you. Good job there.’
‘Thank you.’
Jonesy grunts and takes a corner too wide.
‘Sir,’ I begin.
He talks over me. ‘How are you holding up?’ He keeps his eyes resolutely glued to the road and I realise that this is what this impromptu joint venture is all about. A chat. Sunlight cuts across us like blades as we fly past a wall of overhanging gums.
‘I’m fine.’
‘A pretty rough few weeks.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve got a good little boy in Ben.’
‘I know.’
‘And your man seems solid. Decent. My mate Dan knows him. He’s in construction. Says he’s a good bloke.’
I shift in my seat, willing the conversation away. ‘I guess.’
‘Suppose what I’m saying is that it can be hard to see the wood from the trees or whatever they say. You see what I mean?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ve got a lot going on in your head, Woodstock. Kid, husband, this crazy shit.’ He flings his hand away from the steering wheel as if to point out the madness all around us.
‘Scott’s not my husband.’
‘Same thing these days.’
Our Lady Private Hospital rises out of the landscape as we exit the corridor of trees.
‘Look, I’m not sure you and McKinnon are a good pair.’
‘What?’
‘I’m splitting you up. I want you with Matthews and McKinnon with Kingston.’
My throat constricts. I’m terrified I will cry. ‘But, sir …’
‘It’s decided, Woodstock. My job is to see over the mountains. Above things. And that’s what this is about. It’s good to mix things up. You and Matthews will make a good match.’ He laughs. ‘He’ll learn a ton from you.’
I swallow furiously. ‘But McKinnon and I can finish the Ryan case?’
‘Yes, Woodstock.’ Jonesy turns into the hospital car park. He doesn’t move his body, only his arms. ‘Right now all I want is for you and McKinnon to finish the bloody Ryan case.’
Chapter Sixty-nine
Friday, 1 January, 9.47 am
George Ryan is channelling a day-time TV patriarch. Dressed in navy satin pyjamas, he is propped somewhat dramatically on a cloud of cushions. I half expect him to reveal an evil twin or a secret affair with the housecleaner. Instead, he waves us in, managing to retain his regal stature despite being horizontal.
The décor is much nicer than Smithson Central Hospital. Large framed oil paintings hang on the far wall and light spills in through a giant window. It’s more like a hotel than a hospital room.
George’s hands are riddled with sunspots that look dark against his pale skin. He’s thinned in the past week, his eyes sitting deep in his face.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Ken Jones, Mr Ryan,’ Jonesy says as we enter the room.
George leans forward and fixes his eyes on Jonesy as if confirming that this is his real name.
‘Hello, Mr Ryan,’ I say.
He nods at us in turn and rolls his eyes towards the chairs.
We sit.
He jabs at a button on the side of the bed and a mechanism whirrs into action, lifting him up. ‘I’m dying.’