The Housemate

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘We believe Ms Riboni was suffering from a mental illness,’ Bowman continues, ‘and we are currently investigating her final movements and the circumstances around the fire that occurred at the property after her body was found. We believe it was deliberate and possibly intended to cause harm to emergency services personnel following Ms Riboni’s death.’

  He pauses as a Mexican wave of chatter passes through the room.

  ‘I am well aware that there is significant speculation about the resident of the property in question, and we are exploring all avenues at this early stage. I would encourage you all to ensure you are doing due diligence when it comes to any form of publication about this case. Regardless of the identity of the woman who was living there, we suspect we are dealing with a vulnerable person who may have mental health issues of her own. At this stage, we would simply like to talk to her and confirm that she is safe.’

  The PR greyhound steps forward self-importantly. ‘The chief inspector will take no more than three questions, then that will be all for today.’

  The pack surges forward, arms in the air like schoolchildren.

  ‘Yes, Melissa.’

  Oli rolls her eyes. Bloody Melissa Warren.

  ‘There are reports that the resident of the house was Nicole Horrowitz and that she was living there with a little girl named Evie.’ She splays a taloned hand in the air, clearly annoyed she’s referencing a lead broken by Oli’s paper. ‘One can only assume Alex Riboni went there to confront her, or interact with her in some other way. Did you know the women were still in touch?’

  ‘One can assume lots of things, Melissa, but my department is only concerned with facts. No comment and next question.’

  Oli smirks. She catches Rusty’s eye, and he smiles before directing his gaze at his feet. He knows how much she hates Melissa.

  Hands shoot up in the air again.

  ‘Stacey.’

  ‘Are you saying, Chief Inspector, that you believe Ms Riboni set a bomb to go off in the house following her death?’ asks Rachael Brown from the ABC.

  ‘We’re still investigating, but it does seem a device was in the house and set to go off, yes.’

  Oli looks at Rusty again, but he’s staring straight ahead.

  ‘Bill.’

  Bill Ferguson from Channel Ten nods. ‘Chief Inspector, when did you become aware that Nicole Horrowitz is still alive, and have police been tracking her whereabouts?’

  Bowman’s lips form a thin line. ‘That’s two questions, Bill. My team investigated the death of Evelyn Stanley ten years ago to the best of our ability. We made a conviction, and despite that ruling being overturned, I believe our original investigation was sound and accurate.’

  ‘With all due respect, that doesn’t answer—’

  ‘Ms Horrowitz wasn’t under investigation then, and she isn’t now,’ Bowman says firmly. ‘If she is located, we would welcome the chance to talk to her.’ He trains his intense stare on Bill Ferguson, who shuffles his feet slightly. ‘I appreciate that doesn’t answer either of your questions, but there you have it.’

  Greyhound returns to the mic, looking flustered. ‘Thanks, everyone, that’s it. Please direct all inquiries to our media team. We’ll provide updates as necessary.’

  A dissatisfied rumble breaks out as Bowman leaves the room.

  Oli doesn’t quite know what to make of the presser. Clearly a fair dose of pride in the original investigation is tangled up in all this for Bowman, and perhaps he even feels a responsibility to honour Isabelle’s memory. But to just dismiss Nicole Horrowitz as a suspect doesn’t really make sense—unless he knows something that hasn’t been made public yet.

  As the crowd disbands, Oli keeps track of Rusty’s head bobbing along the side of the room. His auburn hair is unruly; he’s forgotten to put wax in it.

  She shoots him a text. Time for a quick chat? I want to talk to you about the fire.

  He retrieves his phone from his pocket, looks at it, then sweeps his gaze across the sea of people until he sees her and shakes his head. He pockets his phone and takes off down the hall.

  Irritated, Oli waves goodbye to Zach, who gives her another thumbs-up. She nods hello to a few journos as she makes her way to one of the stiff lounges near the security checkpoint. She loosens her shoe and rubs at her ankle, looking around the large space. The station is only a few years old, a step up from the premises on St Kilda Road where the Homicide Squad used to be based. Isabelle only worked here for two months before she was killed.

  Oli remembers the panic that followed her murder, the fear that settled over the entire force. It seemed someone was targeting cops, literally running them down on the street. But then, three weeks later, the arrest came, bringing with it a collective sigh of relief. Theo Bouris was on parole after serving six years in gaol for manslaughter, a charge he denied. Isabelle’s statement had put him away; she was first on the scene and pulled him off the dying victim. He held a grudge—more than that, he hated Isabelle. He had already reoffended on parole, robbing a retailer at knifepoint while claiming he had no money to support his family. He knew his freedom was limited, so he made the most of his last few weeks, hiring a car and hunting Isabelle down like an animal, destroying her life like he believed she had destroyed his.

  Shaking off these dark thoughts, Oli messages Pia to ask that her piece be updated with key quotes from Bowman’s presser. For a few minutes she watches the TV reporters set up outside the building, patient cameramen waiting while lipstick is reapplied. Melissa Warren has scored the prime position under the glowing Victoria Police sign and looks solemn as she’s filmed, her dark bob immune to the wind’s havoc. Once their grabs are in the can, the toothy smiles are replaced by scowls as they cross their arms and curse the weather. They totter off to do their edits and wrap for the day.

  Oli sighs. She loves print, but the cookie-cutter neatness of TV does appeal sometimes, especially the hours.

  She flicks through the main news sites. No one has anything new. Jan Swee, who writes for The Guardian, has managed to speak to a couple who lived near the girls on Paradise Street, but the quotes are bland and the piece is fairly weak.

  Meanwhile, TJ’s front-page piece on O’Brien is red-hot. Oli reads it with admiration and envy. When TJ looks good, she looks bad, or at least less good. Their perceived success is based on comparison rather than a specific goal, and the only reassurance is that the news cycle ensures their podium finish is in constant rotation.

  Oli stretches out her legs and checks Twitter. Outrage has erupted about something Donald Trump said at a campaign event. She scrolls through the comments thread for a few minutes before admitting to herself that she is stalling for time.

  Back in the cafe next door, she orders a coffee from the same kid who evil-eyed her earlier and tips him fifty cents as a peace offering. She works on her feature, trying to build up some layers, but despite a few good sentences here and there, it feels hollow. She switches to drafting a podcast script and gets into a better rhythm.

  Her phone rings, still on silent, the screen lighting up with a number she doesn’t recognise.

  ‘Olive Groves.’

  ‘Did you see the press conference?’ She can’t place the voice: male, angry. ‘What complete bullshit.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

  ‘Mitch Stanley. You’re the journo who contacted me, right? God, I can’t believe this shit is still happening.’

  ‘Mr Stanley, yes. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I watched Bowman serve up his standard crap just now and figured I’d call.’

  Faint electronic sounds make their way down the line, and Oli tenses. Is he calling her from the pokies? Memories of her dad calling her mum to say he’d be home late enter into her thoughts.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ she says, opening her notebook, pen poised. ‘I’m not convinced that the cops disclosed all the information they have, both now and back then.’

 
‘They didn’t do shit back then,’ he says bluntly. ‘Just like they’re not gonna do shit now.’

  ‘I remember you were quite vocal about the appeal back then,’ Oli says tentatively, sounding out how far she can push him. ‘How do you feel about Alex Riboni’s suicide?’

  ‘Frankly I couldn’t give a shit about her. She stabbed my baby girl—I would have killed her myself if I had half the chance.’ His voice wavers unevenly. ‘Losing your kid like that, it screws you up. It completely fucked up my whole life. And her mother’s.’

  ‘I honestly can’t imagine.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He sniffles. ‘Can’t do much about it now.’

  The staff at the counter break into hysterical laughter, and Oli folds herself into the corner of the booth, shielding her phone from the noise. ‘Can you tell me a bit more about why you’re so angry at the police?’

  ‘They’re just a pack of useless morons. Raked me over the coals, accusing me of all kinds of things, but I would never have hurt my little girl. The whole thing was just a total waste of time. I told them what was going on! But they did nothing about it. And what happens? They build a bullshit case against Alex Riboni, and she sails out of gaol a few years later. What a joke.’

  Oli stops taking notes, trying to follow his logic. ‘Mitchell, help me understand. You said you think Alex Riboni murdered your daughter, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. So does Alex being dead bring some closure for you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. I think she was paid to kill my daughter, and I want to know why.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  OLI’S BRAIN BUZZES. DID SHE HEAR MITCHELL CORRECTLY? HE thinks Alex was paid to kill Evelyn? She chews her lip, remembering his erratic behaviour a decade ago. ‘Let me make sure I’m clear,’ she says slowly. ‘You believe that someone paid Alex to kill your daughter?’

  ‘Yep.’ Mitchell sniffs loudly. ‘You saw her in court, pretending she didn’t remember what happened. What a load of shit—she knew exactly what happened. She killed Evelyn and pocketed a whole lot of money.’

  ‘Do you have any proof of this?’ Oli keeps her voice free of judgement, measured and even. ‘For starters, she was in gaol for several years.’

  ‘Well, they gave it to her when she got out, then. Probably they paid to get her out of gaol, so you should look into that too.’

  Oli’s excitement drops a notch. ‘Mr Stanley, perhaps we can talk in person? I’d prefer it, and what you have to say is obviously very important.’

  ‘Can’t,’ he says. ‘I’m in the hospital for a few days.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she says, while her doubt intensifies.

  ‘Yeah. My whole bloody system is packing it in. Doctors reckon I can’t drink anymore, which is not going to work too well.’ His laugh comes out as a snort. ‘I’m in and out of hospital like a bloody jack-in-a-box.’

  Oli murmurs sympathetically, trying to quell her attitude toward him; she knows it’s mainly because he reminds her of her father. She takes a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m listening now, and I want to know what you think happened.’

  ‘It was Evelyn who told me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She did,’ he says defiantly.

  ‘Your daughter told you Alex was paid to kill her?’ Oli’s forehead rumples as she tries to keep up. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘I borrowed a lot of money off her.’

  ‘From Evelyn?’

  ‘Yeah. I’d got myself into a bit of a mess, gambling and the like. Pissing away our savings. Anyway, in the autumn I told Evelyn how bad things were, asked her not to mention it to her mother. I wondered if she could loan me some money, just until I got sorted. It’s not like I expected her to say yes, but she said she could.’

  Oli flips to a new page. ‘How much money are we talking?’

  ‘She gave me five thousand dollars.’

  Oli’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Five thousand dollars.’ She writes the figure down with a flourish.

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for a student living out of home.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he says triumphantly. ‘She wasn’t earning that kind of dough babysitting, that’s for sure.’

  Drugs, Oli thinks. Or perhaps prostitution. But all she says to Mitchell is, ‘You didn’t ask about it?’

  ‘No. I should’ve, obviously, but I needed the cash. I promised to pay her back, and that was that. Look, I knew it was suss, but I didn’t want to get into all that.’

  ‘Where did you think she was getting the money from?’

  He sniffs and mutters, ‘Drugs.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘Evelyn was different that year. She pulled back from me a fair bit. From Gerry too. It broke her heart, even though she was too proud to admit it. But something was up. A few times when I saw Evelyn, I knew she was coming down from drugs but I didn’t say anything. Not my place.’ He sighs. ‘I only saw her two more times after she gave me the money. I was trying to get the dollars together to pay her back, but things just weren’t going right for me.’

  In his voice Oli detects a sense of his struggle with himself, a desire to be a better person only to be continually thwarted by his own poor decisions.

  ‘We had dinner the night before she died, but I’m sure you know that. For some reason, everyone always thought that was a big deal. Anyway, when I saw her that night she wasn’t doing so well.’

  ‘Physically?’

  ‘She wasn’t looking her best, but that’s not what I mean. She was always so pretty—well, you’ve seen photos, obviously—but she was run-down. Gotten herself really skinny too.’

  ‘Did she mention money that night?’ Oli presses. ‘Or say anything about Alex and Nicole?’

  ‘She was upset. I told her things were still bad for me, and she said that she wished she could help me out again but that things had changed and she was running low on cash. She wanted me to pay her back, and I said I would as soon as I could. I asked her if everything was okay, and she started crying. I asked her if it was something to do with a bloke, but she said it wasn’t that.’

  ‘Did she give you any idea what she was upset about?’

  ‘She said things were bad at the house. I got the feeling she was fighting with the girls.’

  Oli’s impatience bubbles to the surface. ‘I need to be clear, Mr Stanley. At any point did your daughter say anything about Alex Riboni threatening her or being paid to harm her?’

  ‘Not in so many words,’ he admits. ‘But I’m telling you, she was on edge. She was scared of those girls, and I’m not just saying that ’cause of what happened.’

  ‘But she didn’t say why?’

  ‘You sound like the cops,’ he mutters. ‘Look, she didn’t spell it out, but I knew my daughter, and something was up with her.’

  ‘Did she say anything about the party they were having the following night?’

  ‘She mentioned it. She told me Nicole invited that professor. Someone should be looking at him—I’ve heard he’s not short of a bob. Maybe he was giving her money.’

  Oli presses her fingers to her temples. ‘So, in your opinion, why did they have people over when they were arguing?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I.’ Mitchell is clearly losing his patience too. ‘I guess they were trying to patch things up.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ She tries to think. ‘There have been some reports of Evelyn earning money at a brothel. I know she told you she was short of money, but did she mention anything about what she was doing for work?’

  ‘My daughter wasn’t a slut. She barely even had boyfriends. That Calamity Jane story was a load of shit.’

  ‘Of course,’ Oli murmurs, thinking that a father is never going to react well to the possibility his daughter was getting paid for sex.

  ‘She was going to focus on her acting. She got a role in Sydney she was considering, and I had the feeling she planned to drop out of
uni. I told Gerry, and she went ballistic. She always wanted Evelyn to get a degree above anything else.’

  ‘You told your wife about your conversation with Evelyn?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Called her the next day, the Friday. Like I said, I was worried. She wasn’t herself.’

  ‘Was Geraldine worried too?’

  ‘I think she thought I was exaggerating. We were going through a rough patch.’

  Oli recalls Geraldine’s anguished cries, Mitchell grabbing her as she lurched along Paradise Street toward her dead daughter.

  ‘She blamed me for everything.’ He doesn’t sound bitter, just resigned.

  ‘Did you tell her about Evelyn lending you money?’

  ‘Of course, but I don’t know if she believed me. Maybe she just didn’t want to think badly of Evelyn. She knew she shouldn’t have five grand to loan out.’

  ‘And you told the cops everything you’ve told me?’

  ‘Yep, but they didn’t give a shit. They had their suspect, they weren’t interested. They just wanted it all sorted so they could move on to something else. But as far as I’m concerned, the lazy fuckers only got half a killer. I loved my daughter, but she wasn’t perfect. She got a whole lot of cash from somewhere, and I think the same person paid Alex to hurt her.’

  A woman starts talking in the background—a nurse asking him a question? He mutters a response.

  Oli looks at her page of shorthand, her head spinning. ‘Thank you for speaking to me, Mr Stanley. Can we talk again?’

  ‘I’ll talk to you every bloody day if you can get the pigs to do their job,’ he says before abruptly hanging up.

  Oli sits there feeling numb. If he’s telling the truth, then Evelyn must have been involved in something sinister. But what? No one else is likely to come forward if that involves a risk of being implicated in illegal activity.

  First things first: if Oli can confirm Mitchell mentioned the money to the cops, it would show some consistency in his claims. Maybe Rusty can validate it for her. She quickly shoots a message to the number he called her from, asking that he doesn’t speak to anyone else in the media. Knocking back the last of her cold coffee, she tries to stitch all the disparate pieces of information together in her mind.